The Pack
by TChronicler
Summary: Arya interrupts the Season 4 fight between the Hound and the Maid, and changes the course of events, starting with rescuing Sansa from Littlefinger's influence. Sandor x Sansa sansan Jaime x Brienne Warnings: This is Westeros. 'Nuff said.
1. Chapter 1: The Maid vs The Hound

**Author's Note: This is my first time, so please be gentle.**

Arya

_They're going to kill each other,_ Arya thought, and on the heels of that thought was the realization that she cared. It was enough to make her want push her way into the fight and kill the Hound herself. Because she couldn't care. Not again.

She slipped on rocks in her haste, fell on her arse and began the long, painful slide down to the battleground where the two warriors were bellowing war cries and trading vicious blows. Above her, the big woman's squire cried out at her escape and started to follow, more carefully than she had. He'd never reach her. The fighters were on the ground now, and the Hound had the upper hand, raising himself up to strike the woman. Arya found her feet and charged, colliding with him in a tackle that threw him back. He grabbed her around the waist and took her with him as he rolled, his great weight crushing her before they turned again and she came to a stop on top of him.

The woman was already on her feet, sword in hand, leveled at them. "Yield," she commanded, in a voice as rough as the rocks around them.

"Never!" the Hound growled, slinging Arya off as he started to rise, but throwing her behind him. As Arya scrambled to grab him about the shoulders, she saw how the warrior maiden raised her brow, saw the thoughts that flitted across her face.

"Very well," said the Maid of Tarth, lowering her weapon. "I yield."

"What trick is this?" The Hound got to his feet, slowly and warily. He shrugged Arya from his shoulders, but she felt the way he used his hand on her shoulder to assist his rise, under the guise of pushing her away from him.

"'Tis no trick, ser. You would go to your death to protect the child I'm sworn to see to safety. I can have no quarrel with you."

"You bit a chunk off me, you fucking cunt!"

She shrugged. "I see now that you're dedicated to protecting her."

"Oh, you see that now," he mocked in his sarcastic way, staggering a few feet to reach his fallen sword.

"Well you didn't expect me to take your word for it."

"If you're done trying to kill each other," Arya drawled, "what now?"

"Where were you headed?" the Maid asked.

"The Wall."

"That's your idea of safety?" The words exploded from the boy, Podrick, who looked shocked to hear his own voice and desperate to swallow the words back. He looked afraid of his own shadow.

"My brother's there. Jon Snow."

"Jon Snow?" Podrick repeated, as if the name meant something to him. "That's right, Jon Snow is the bastard of Winterfell."

"What's it to you?" Arya snapped.

"He's been named Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

"Is there anyone in the Seven Kingdoms you don't know about, boy?" the Hound sneered.

"He's terribly useful that way," Brienne said with a smile that Arya thought made her look not half so ugly. Not that Arya thought ugly was a bad thing. She never saw beauty do a woman a bit of good. But here was an ugly woman, a lady even, and she wore armor, and knew how to use a sword, and almost bested the Hound.

"Then tell us about Sansa Stark," the Hound rasped. "You say Littlefinger's got her at the Eyrie?"

"We heard the rumor that Littlefinger helped her flee from King's Landing, after she helped Tyrion poison the king."

"That's not true!"Arya snapped. "I wish it were, but my sister wouldn't kill anyone, even that sniveling little weasel with a crown."

"You'd be surprised what living in the Red Keep can do to you, child," the Hound muttered.

"Aye," Brienne agreed, just as softly.

"It's not true," Podrick agreed, bringing the conversation back to topic. "My lord Tyrion might have had reason, but he would never have acted so foolishly. Most of King's Landing knows that and pretends they don't. And his lady, um, your sister, she bore no love for the Lannisters, but I don't believe it was in her to do something like that, nor to let her husband take the blame."

There was some sort of grumbling from the Hound, but Arya couldn't make it out and he went ignored.

"The next we heard was that Littlefinger presented himself at the Bloody Gate in the company of a girl named Alayne. And then we heard that Littlefinger married your Aunt Lysa."

"And now Aunt Lysa's dead. They told us that when we reached the gate yesterday. We might have known sooner if we could stop at inns to eat and hear the gossip, without this one being recognized everywhere we go." She jerked her thumb at the Hound, who grunted again. He had settled himself on a rock behind her and when she looked back, he was pawing at his neck. She went to go look. "Do you think she's still there, my sister?" she asked Podrick. To the Hound she said, "You've gone and ripped the stitches."

"I didn't do it, that bloody bitch tried to tear my head from my shoulders."

Brienne rolled her eyes, but didn't respond to the jibe.

"We need to clean this again."

"I'll boil some wine," Podrick offered.

"If you've got wine, bring it here, boy."

"Boil it, Pod," Brienne ordered.

While Podrick and Brienne went about gathering brush to start a small fire, Arya poured water over the Hound's latest injuries. "I want to find my sister," she said quietly.

"Aye," he replied. She wasn't sure what that meant.

"My brother, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. I don't know what he'd think of us showing up there. But I can't leave the South if Sansa's still here somewhere. I can't leave her with a worm like Littlefinger."

"Aye."

"So we'll look for her. Find out where Littlefinger's gone and if she's with him."

"Aye."

She was getting annoyed by him, wondering if he was even listening. His skin was hot to the touch, and she knew he was still fevered from the foul wound on his neck.

"And we'll let these two go with us if they want."

"Aye."

"I thought you would argue."

"I told you I'd see you safely to your family. Haven't done it yet. And your sister's out there somewhere, in the clutches of that slimy, flesh-peddling pervert. She's a good girl, and I'd see her separated from him if I could. But I may be about all used up."

"Don't say that." There it was again. That flare of something that felt like giving a damn.

He ignored her. "And if I am, this great beast of a woman will see you and your sister to the Wall. If she gave her word to your mother, she'll keep it, no matter the lady's not around to care anymore. I know the type. All honor and duty. Like your father. She'll see you to the Wall, if she doesn't get herself killed first. She might have bested me if you hadn't stopped us, so-"

"You're not yourself."

"Making excuses for me now, little wolf?"

Arya shrugged, even though he wasn't looking at her. "It's true enough."

"Aye, it's true enough," the Hound agreed.


	2. Chapter 2: Bitter choice

**Author's note: This scene is lifted from 5x02, Sansa's perspective.**

_Sansa _

"Do you like the taste?"

Sansa considered the ale in her mug for moment, before setting it back on the table. "I don't see what all the fuss is about. Why do men love it so much?" She heard the bored tone in her voice as she met Lord Baelish's eyes across the table. She was playacting. She had washed her hair in darkness, and she tried to let the darkness fill her, to sound as empty and cold as the women at court. Perhaps, if she played at it long enough, she could be as dark and cold as the world around her, and she wouldn't have to be afraid anymore.

"It gives some men courage," Littlefinger answered.

She regarded him through eyes half-lidded to belie the boldness of her question, "Does it give you courage?"

He stared back at her for a long, assessing moment, and she tried not to let him know how it unnerved her.

"That's far enough," came the warning of one of the guards beside their table, and she turned her head from Littlefinger's gaze to look.

A woman stood there, an impossibly tall, armored woman who was not the least bit cowed by the guards who surrounded her and looked on her with menace and derision. As she began to speak, back straight and chin high, Sansa had the fleeting thought that she was the proudest woman Sansa had seen since she'd said goodbye to her lady mother. "Lord Baelish, Lady Sansa," the strange woman addressed them, "my name is Brienne of Tarth."

"We've met," Baelish cut her off, still leaning inattentively to the side of his seat, "with Renly Bartheon." Looking from one to the other, Sansa could see the memory of the dead pretender affected the woman, but she kept her features serene. "What did he say about you? He said...your loyalty came free of charge."

Sansa knew from his tone that it was meant as a cutting remark, and wondered where the slight was. The woman smiled slightly and nodded in acknowledgment. Around them, the inn had gone silent, watching the show.

"Someone appears to have paid quite a bit for it since then."

The expression on the face of Brienne of Tarth hardened, but she didn't drop her gaze, and with a small movement of his hand, Littlefinger allowed her to approach the table. Sansa was shocked and unsettled when the large woman turned her back to Littlefinger and lowered herself to one knee, her words for Sansa alone. "My Lady Sansa," she began. Sansa found herself unnerved by the bruises the woman wore across her face, and by the lack of the false, coaxing smile that everyone seemed to use when speaking to her. "Before your mother's death, I was her sworn sword. I gave my word I would find you and protect you. I will shield your back, and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it, by the old gods and the new."

Sansa could only stare at her bruised, earnest face, and the intensity of her sapphire gaze as she turned the words over in her mind.

"Please, Lady Brienne," Littlefinger interrupted, rising smoothly. "No need for such formality." Leave it to Baelish to cheapen the woman's vow by sweeping it aside like dust on his shoe. He leaned on the side of the booth, cocky and self-important, as Brienne rose to her feet to tower over him. "You were Lady Catelyn Stark's sworn sword."

"I was."

"Strange. I knew Cat from the time we were children. She never mentioned you."

_Oh, how he loves to talk about knowing my mother when they were children. As though it means he owned a part of her. As though it meant to her what it clearly meant to him. _

"It was after Renly's murder."

"Ah, yes. You were accused of killing him."

Brienne's head snapped around. "I tried to save him."

"But you were accused," Littlefinger said, as though that itself meant something.

_I was accused of helping to poison the king. My father was accused of treason. _Sansa leaned forward in spite of herself, finding herself interested in this woman who seemed to have no fear of Baelish whatsoever.

"By men who didn't see what happened."

"And what did happen?"

Brienne lowered her eyes and looked away. Not out of shame, Sansa thought, but lost in the memory. The woman turned then and spoke to her, not Baelish. "He was murdered by a shadow. A shadow with the face of Stannis Baratheon." Sansa had heard the story before, and though it was a ridiculous thing to utter, there was nothing in the voice that pleaded for acceptance.

"A shadow? With the face..." Littlefinger let his voice trail off with a puff of air that was close to a laugh. "This woman swore to protect Renly. She failed. She swore to protect your mother. She failed. Why would I want somebody with your history of failure guarding Lady Sansa?"

"Why should you have any say her affairs?" Brienne inquired, for the first time allowing something like disgust to creep into her voice as she looked down on Baelish.

"Because I am her Uncle. I married her Aunt Lysa shortly before my beloved's untimely death. We're family now, and you are an outsider. Forgive me, Lady Brienne, but experience has made me wary of outsiders."

Brienne turned back to her. "Lady Sansa, if we could have a word alone-"

"No," Sansa interrupted. She had heard enough. Tragedy befell everyone who cared for her, everyone who sheltered her. No matter how much Sansa longed to for protection, to lean on the strength of another, for the love this woman bore her mother, she could not now expose her to danger.

"Please, my lady, if I could explain-"

"I _saw _you at Joffrey's wedding, bowing to the king."

She might well have slapped the woman for the look of hurt that crossed her features. "Neither of us wanted to be there. Sometimes we don't have a choice."

"And sometimes we do." _And this is one of the few choices I can make, to set you free. _"You should leave." Sansa's chest squeezed at the coldness in her own voice.

As Brienne stared down at her, Littlefinger spoke again. "We don't want our new friend wandering the countryside alone, the roads in these parts aren't safe. Why don't you stay," he invited, exchanging a look with two of his guards.

Brienne looked back down at Sansa, who forced herself to hold her gaze steady, even while inside she panicked over her decision. Littlefinger wasn't going to let her go. Merely the act of approaching Sansa had doomed this poor woman. Blue eyes stared at her for a long moment, and then the woman turned to walk away.

Littlefinger's guards tried to block her path, but she elbowed her way through, knocking them from their feet, and bolted for the door. The guards gave chase. Cloaking herself in false serenity, Sansa turned smoothly back to Littlefinger as he took his seat across from her once again.

"Fascinating woman. You understand, of course. She knows who you are. We can't trust anyone."

"Of course."

"I was a little surprised you turned her down."

"As you pointed out, she's clearly incompetent. And why wouldn't she be? A woman gallivanting about the countryside, playing at being a knight? She's ridiculous." _She's earnest and fearless. She knows exactly who she is and doesn't play at being anything else. It's the rest of us who are ridiculous, who play at games that have no winner._

Littlefinger rose again and extended his hand to her. "Come. The rest of the men can catch us up after they've dispatched her, but we should be on our way. We've stayed too long and people will talk about this."

"Of course you're right, Uncle."

She put her hand in his. _"Sometimes we don't have a choice." _The words echoed in her head. But perhaps the gods had finally sent her a choice, and she'd chosen wrongly.


	3. Chapter 3: Little bird, time to fly

**Author's note: The middle part of the chapter is lifted from 5x03.**

_Sandor_

"But how could you? How could you just let her go with a man like Littlefinger? I thought you said you were going to protect us!" the little wolf shouted at Brienne of Tarth.

"She refused my service, what was I to do?"

"You should have bloody well taken her," Sandor growled, rising to his feet, concentrating on making it look like it wasn't an effort. The brat had just helped him buckle on his chestpiece, and now she moved to help him with his couters and braces. He bit back the urge to slap her away. He'd never had a squire, and didn't want one. And he didn't know why he was putting up with her. _I offered, she refused. What was I to do? Should have bloody well taken her, not left her in the clutches of the fucking Lannisters, to be married off to the half-man._

"He had ten armed men," the boy-Poddick, or whatever his name was-whined, coming to the great bitch's defense.

Sandor snorted. Anyone who could best Ser Loras Tyrell could probably take ten hired swords. She'd gone after him, hadn't she? Even knowing who he was. He hadn't taken her for a coward.

"The lady might have been injured in the fray," the woman said simply.

_There is that,_ Sandor allowed, but only in his head. "At least you brought horses. We can catch them."

"We only went for information," the squire said, climbing on onto his horse, "I never thought we'd just...find her. We shouldn't separate again."

The big bitch raised a brow at her squire. Likely he didn't often venture to offer opinions.

"Unless we kill Littlefinger and his men, too many people know who we are, that Brienne of Tarth is looking for the Stark girls. And you...well, you'll stand out, my lady, once word gets around. There's safety in numbers, so they say."

_Idiots say lot of things, before they get themselves stabbed in the back._ But he wasn't interested in arguing the point. Let the boy convince the great cow that she was safer with him. Less chance of her trying to run off with both girls as soon as his back was turned.

"Maybe we should leave you behind to rest," the brat aimed her jape at him, but quietly, where the others wouldn't hear. "Or do you think you could get on your horse while there's still daylight?"

"The little wolf is braver now she has a sworn sword to stand between her and my temper."

Arya raised a brow, looking at him with those dark eyes that were way too old for her face. "You wouldn't hurt me," she told him, and it hit him in the gut. Someone had said that to him before.

"Let's get on with it!" the Hound barked, kicking his horse to action.

**xxxxxxxxx**

_Sansa_

"That's Moat Cailin," Sansa said, when Littlefinger led her to the edge of the bluff overlooking fort and the marshes that surrounded it. He had been quiet during the journey, and there was something about that quiet, about his lack of need to hear himself talk, that made her uneasy.

"Yes. A bit shabby, isn't it? You've been here before."

She didn't understand. What was his purpose in stopping here? "On our way down to King's Landing," she answered, "with my father and Arya and... Where are you taking me?"

"Home."

She didn't speak immediately, needing a moment to push down the fear that was growing inside her. "The Boltons have Winterfell."

He nodded.

Sansa looked back at the three dark towers rising in the distance, terrified to give voice to her suspicions, but unable to bear not knowing. "Your marriage proposal, it wasn't for you."

Shook his head. "No."

He said it so simply. The horror of it threatened to engulf her. _Not again. Not again! _"Roose Bolton murdered my brother, he betrayed my family!"

"He did."

"He serves the Lannisters."

"For now." Littlefinger kept his voice low and even, as though by sounding calm and sensible, he could convince her this wasn't depravity.

Shook her head. "I won't go."

"Winterfell is your home."

"Not anymore."

"Always. You're a Stark. Dyeing your hair doesn't change that, you're still Sansa Stark, eldest surviving child of Ned and Catelyn Stark. Your place is in the North."

She didn't need this slimy, murdering whoremonger to tell her who she was or where she belonged. And yet, she was in his power. What would happen if she refused him? Fear clutched at her heart and she lashed out against it. "I can't marry him. You can't make me. He is a traitor. A murderer!"

"You're not marrying Roose Bolton. No, you'll be marrying his son and heir, Ramsay. One day he'll be Warden of the North and you'll-"

"No." She choked on the word, on her weakness.

"Sansa..." He said it quietly, patiently, and with that hint of disappointment a father uses toward a disobedient daughter. He was nothing like her father, and yet the comparison, the reminder flitting through her head, broke her heart all over again. She could not dishonor her father's memory by marrying into the family that murdered his wife and heir.

"No, you can't make me! I will starve myself, I will die before I have to go there!" She heard herself, the spoiled girl she had been. The one who was so sure of her world that she believed causing herself suffering would change people's minds. Arya would have threatened to cut his balls off, but not Lady Sansa. She thought she had changed, but she hadn't.

He grasped her shoulders, moving in close. "I won't force you to do anything. Don't you know by now how much I care for you? Say the word and we turn the horses around but listen to me." He shook her. "Listen." His voice dropped to a whisper. "You'll be running all your life."

She saw the moment when his eyes fixed on her mouth. He dropped his gaze to her shoulder, but the reminder of what she really was to him had broken the spell he'd tried to weave with his voice. She began to wonder just what he planned to get out of this arrangement, while he continued. "Terrible things happen your family and you weep. You sit alone in a darkened room, mourning their fates. You've been a bystander to tragedy from the day they executed your father. Stop being a bystander, do you hear me? Stop running." His hand came up to cup her face. "There's no justice in the world. Not unless we make it. You loved your family. Avenge them."

She wanted nothing more, but how did this marriage serve the purpose? What was it he wanted her to do? He wasn't even looking her in the eye anymore, and what did that mean? She dropped her head, heavy with thought, and felt his lips press against her brow.

"You'll do it."

She wasn't sure if it was a question. She wanted to lean forward and drop her head against his shoulder, just to lean on someone. And she wanted to push the disgusting man as far from her as she could and never see him again. She wanted to mount her horse and charge into Moat Cailin, slaughter the Boltons as they had slaughtered her family. And she wanted to ride away and find the darkest cave in Westros and hide until the war was over, all was decided, and no one cared about a girl with an old name anymore.

"When must I decide?"

Shouts from the men had them both spinning around. Already the horses of the guards were turned, riding away to meet four riders approaching from the east. Two armed men and two boys, maybe knights and their squires, but she could see no colors, and it was impossible to tell whose side they might be on.

Until the largest of the party drew his sword and cut down the first of Littlefinger's men to meet him. He pushed through, hacking at the guards, leaving his three companions behind, his gaze fixed on her and Littlefinger. Three guards broke from the fray and turned their horses to follow.

_The Hound._

Hope, terror, and confusion rose in her breast in equal parts in the second it took him reach them. Littlefinger grabbed her by the arms, pulling her off balance, and placing her, not behind him, but in front. The Hound bellowed, a wordless, wrathful threat. The first of the guards to catch up raised his sword to cut him down from behind, but even as Sansa's hands flew to her mouth, the Hound whirled in his seat, his blade taking the man in the neck, half severing his head from his body. He controlled his horse with his legs as he beat back the other two with vicious blows, trying to make space enough to swing his sword.

Sansa stumbled as Littlefinger dragged her away from the fighting. The Hound took out another man, but lost his seat, falling from the horse and just barely managing to roll out of the way before being trampled. Gaining his feet, he wasted no time in dragging the last man from horse and shoving a large dagger between breastplate and helm. The man was hardly dead before the Hound dropped him to the ground and was striding toward them, cutting off their path to the horses.

But why was he here? She thought he had left the service of the Lannisters during the battle of the Blackwater, but had they taken him back? Or perhaps he meant to use her to buy his way back into their good graces.

"Let her go, Littlefinger," he growled.

The sounds of horses approaching dragged Sansa's eyes away, and the Hound turned to look as well. "Keep back!" he bellowed, and the other man signaled the boys to stop and wait.

_Why does he not want his allies closer? _she wondered. _Is he protecting them, or himself?_

"Give me the gel and I might let you live, flesh-peddler."

"You'll understand my reluctance to give my niece up to a killer with a price on his head."

"I don't give two fucks for your reluctance. Let her go."

Littlefinger was moving backward, away from the Hound, but toward the edge of the cliff. She wanted to look over her shoulder, to see how close they were, but he was holding her too tightly.

"And what will you do with her, dog, ransom her back to the Lannisters?"

"That will be no concern of yours while your body rots in the marsh."

"I think I'll not be the one to go down in the marsh today."

The arm around Sansa's shoulders tensed, and then she was pulled, spinning out from his body. Her skirts tangled around her legs, catching fast, making it impossible to find her feet, and the next she knew there was no more ground, only air with the sound of screams upon it.


	4. Chapter 4: Holding out for a hero

**Author's note: Thank you for your reviews and favs! And now for some thrilling heroics.**

_Sandor _

"Gods. Fuck. Hang on, little bird. I'm comin'. Do y'see that tree tryin' to grow up on your right. Can you reach that?"

Then he was on his belly, his legs already over the edge of the bluff. The ledge she held was so narrow, when he dropped his weight could cause it to crumble and send them both to their deaths in the marsh below. He looked down. Tears streamed from the girl's eyes and her teeth were sunk into her bottom lip. She was trying to move, by bits of inches, toward the spindly little tree.

"That's it, now. Try to wrap yer arm around it. Up to the elbow."

"Sansa!" the brat cried out, throwing herself to the ground beside him.

"Arya?! You're alive!" her voice full of fear, tears, and wonder.

"Hold on!" To him she said, "I should go. I'm the lightest. Get back up here and you can lower me down."

"And what good will you be once you get there? Then I'll have both of you to rescue."

"Podrick." Tarth's voice was commanding but calm. "Search Littlefinger's men and horses. See if there's rope or anything useful."

"Aye, my lady."

"You should let me go," she told him. "I'm lighter than you."

"Not by much, you great beast." He looked down. Sansa had her arm wrapped around the sapling, and was gripping her wrist with her other hand. "Good gel. Just hold on now."

"I don't think I can hold for much longer," she cried, managing to sound both terrified and apologetic at once. _Ladies._

"Give me your hands. Arya. Sit on Tarth, but if she starts to go over, let her go."

"You'll not take me over," the woman told him calmly as they wrapped hands around each other's wrists. He let himself slide, slowed by his boots on the side of the bluff and Tarth's grip on his arms. "Pod, anything?"

"Not yet, my lady!"

Their arms stretched between them, and Tarth was hanging over the edge as well, bent at the waist with Arya planted on top of her. There was still a drop of a few feet, and it looked none too solid to him.

"Clegane!" Sansa screamed, the sound tearing up his spine. The sapling was bending, its thin roots coming up from the ground.

He and Tarth let go at the same moment and he dropped, letting his knees bend and his body follow. But then he was shuffling back against the bluff wall as far as he could as the ground crumbled beneath his boots. As carefully as he could on the ledge that was left, he bent to one knee and caught the girl below the arms, lifting her easily and clutching her trembling form against his body as he rose.

"There now, little bird. I've got ya. But you need to turn me loose now so I can get you up to yer sister, eh?" Her fingers were clutching, scraping against his studded jerkin, trying to find purchase. He held her with one arm and stilled her fingers with his other hand. "I won't drop ya now, I promise."

"I know you won't," she sniffed, looking up at him as she opened her hands and smoothed delicately, what she was trying to press out wrinkles. Though he couldn't feel it, just watching her touch him was too much, her tears, the trust in her voice, undoing him even as he felt more earth give beneath his feet.

He grasped her waist and lifted her, as high as he could. "Need you to climb now. Onto my shoulder, and reach up for Tarth."

Her skirts brushed his face as she worked one small foot onto his shoulder. The sole of her riding boot slipped on his rounded shoulder plate, and her hand shot out and gripped the hair on the top of his head. He leaned back against the bluff wall, and she put out the other hand for balance.

"I can't-" she sounded frustrated, confused, and panicked. "I can't stand."

He kept one hand on her hip to steady her, reached down with the other and grabbed her other foot. "I'm going to hoist you up. Lean forward, not, back, understood?"

"Yes."

He pushed up, and she pushed down with her hand and foot. The hand he'd had on her hip slid down her leg as she straightened, and then he felt her other foot join the first on his shoulder.

"Tarth! D'ya have her?" More ground was giving with the force of their efforts.

"I-almost...Yes! Yes, I have her!"

Sandor sagged against the wall as he felt Sansa's weight leave his shoulder.

"Pod! I need you!" the older woman shouted.

It took both the young ones' help, but in a few moments, Sansa's boots disappeared over the edge. Sandor let out the breath he'd been holding, then took a good look down at the marsh and around at his predicament. The little sapling was cracked and useless, except for its root system which was the only thing holding up the last bit of ground he had left. He could see no handholds near him, and, in any case, he had never been much of a climber. Yesterday, beaten down by a woman, poked and prodded by a clumsy child, and so damned tired he could hardly think, he hadn't much minded the thought of dying. Now, the memory of the little bird trembling in his arms-whatever the reason, the idea that he would meet his death by falling in a swamp pissed him off.

"The rope, Clegane!" Tarth yelled at him, as a length of rope bounced against the wall next to his head. He grabbed it, but when he put his weight to it to try to climb, it slackened, and four voices cried out from above him.

"Tie it to a horse, ya lackwits!" he shouted at them. He was standing on the ball of roots now, and there was only room for one of his feet.

"All right, try it again!" Podrick called down.

Hoping someone up there could tie a damned knot, and knowing it was now or never, Sandor set his boots against the wall and let the rope take his weight. It held. And it was moving, as someone drove the horse and the others pulled. He felt the strain of everything, every injury of the last days, and tried to shut out all but the motions of putting one foot in front of the other, pulling up hand over hand. And then Tarth and Podrick had his arms, and were pulling him back over the edge.

He stayed on his knees for only a moment, wanting nothing more than to collapse upon the ground, but staggering to his feet instead. "Littlefinger, he got away?"

"He did," Podrick confirmed. "We were more concerned-"

"Yeah, yeah. He'll be bringing back a force from the Moat to come after us." He dragged himself forward, catching Sansa's arm as he moved past toward his horse.

"Lady Sansa can ride with me," Tarth told him.

"Aye, she could." He grasped the girl's waist, set her up on his horse, and mounted behind her. The beast stepped restlessly as Sandor scooped her into his arms again and settled her across his legs. _Fuck the proprieties, _he thought, _I've earned this at least. _He spurred the horse forward, and she fell back against his chest. He thought that he should make some effort to lock his arm higher behind her back, in order to help her sit up, away from him. But to Hell with it. He was so tired.

"Thank you," she told him, in that soft, musical voice of hers.

He grunted in reply. Serving people like her was what was expected of him, and he was never comfortable with her gratitude. "What have you done to your hair?"

"I dyed it."

"It looks like shit."

She ducked her face against his shoulder with a noise that was half laugh, half sob. "It will wash out, I think."

"Shit always does."


	5. Chapter 5: Sick as a dog

**A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews and favs. You're really keeping me motivated to explore this story.**

_Arya_

"Podrick!" Sansa's voice spun Arya in her saddle. She slowed her mount, allowing Sansa and the Hound to catch her up while Podrick rode forward to answer her call.

"Yes, my lady?"

"Please ride ahead and tell Lady Brienne she must find a place for us to stop. The H-Clegane is unwell."

"Of course, my lady."

Arya's first thought was how foolish that was, when Bolton's men could be picking up their trail at any second, but that there was no point in Arya telling her they couldn't stop. Sansa never listened. Brienne would set her straight.

But the next thought was, _Why doesn't the Hound tell her? _And then she noticed how Sansa was bent forward over the stallion's neck, the reins in her hand, not the Hound's. As Sansa's mount met hers, she could see the Hound was slumped on top of her, his weight bearing her down. Her other hand was wrapped in one of the leather straps on the side of his jerkin, in an effort to keep him upright, and her face was pinched with the strain of her predicament.

"What's wrong with him?" Arya snapped.

"There's a hole in his armor. I think he's been bleeding. But he's also feverish, probably because of this wound that's festered on his neck. It should have been tended."

Sansa's voice sounded accusing to her ears, and Arya fell back into their old pattern immediately. "I tended it!"

The sound of Brienne's horse hurrying back to them cut short their bickering. "What is it? By the gods, my lady, let me-"

"I'm fine. But we must stop and make camp. He needs rest and care."

Brienne's face became hard. Arya studied her as she weighed their circumstances. _She's thinking that we can't slow down for him. Her oath is to us and our mother, not this dog, and we should just dump him by the side of the road and move on before Littlefinger catches up to us. But he's my dog, and I'm not leaving him. She can't make me._

"Pod." The squire, who had been keeping an eye on the forest around them, snapped to attention. "Take Arya and find a place. Send her back for us when you do. We'll need a fire, small as you can make it. The smoke's a danger but we'll have to risk it."

"Yes, my lady."

"Arya, if you run into trouble, you hide, do you understand me?"

"Yes," she said, automatically, reeling a bit from the fact that this woman had actually given her responsibility.

Brienne raised a brow in a looked that pinned Arya to her saddle. "Arya?"

Arya came back to herself. "Aye, I'll not take on a party of armored knights singlehandedly, all right?"

"Hey, singlehandedly?" Pod pouted.

"Children," Brienne snapped, "this is no time for jokes. Get on with it."

**xxxxxxx**

_Sansa_

Sansa's back and stomach ached from the strain of trying to hold herself up. Hair clung damply to the back of her neck where the Hound's breath moved across it, making her shiver despite the heat of him. One particular strand was pulled painfully tight, and she longed pull it free, but even if she could spare her hand, she didn't think she'd manage it. Given the shape he was in, it seemed like she should be able to bear these small discomforts with some grace.

"My lady, let me take his weight." Brienne moved her horse closer, causing Sansa's mount to step sideways nervously. She felt the Hound start to slip sideways, and frantically tightened her grip on the strap of his armor to compensate. Brienne's glove wrapped around her own hand and tugged, holding until Sansa could adjust the balance again.

"I thank you, Lady Brienne, but I'll manage until they find us a camp."

"I would not have you so discomfited, my lady, but I am afraid that if we take him down from the horse, we won't be able to get him back on again without his help."

"Truly, I will manage."

"Very well, my lady. And it is simply Brienne, if you don't mind."

"Are you not the daughter of the lord of Tarth?"

Brienne smiled. "I am. But I'm hardly a lady. The title doesn't suit."

"I've come to think that the world has a narrow view of what suits that particular title."

"That is well spoken." The smile widened, and Sansa felt herself warmed by it.

"If I am to drop the formality, then you must as well and call me Sansa. And if we are to be friends, I must offer my apologies for the way I spoke to you-or refused to speak to you-when you offered me your assistance before."

"You were afraid, my-Sansa. No apologies are necessary."

"I was. I am. So many people connected to me, to my family-" Emotion welled in her throat and she choked it down. "I would not be responsible for your death."

Rather than offer assurances to the contrary, which would only deny Sansa's feelings, Brienne simply nodded her understanding, and Sansa's heart warmed all the more to this strange woman.

**xxxxxx**

_Arya_

"No, not there," she snapped, riding on.

"But it's not far from the stream, lots of shelter from these rocks to block view of the smoke..." Podrick argued.

"D'you see that track running down the hill there? That's from water. Where the water runs down to the stream. And it looks like rain tonight. Want to see our camp washed away in the middle of the night?"

"Ah, I see, my lady."

"Arya," she corrected, impatient. "I'm not a lady."

"I've had this lecture before, but you see, it wouldn't be proper-"

"Proper? D'you even hear yourself? What's proper about calling _me _a lady? It's like calling a cat a horse because they both live in the stable."

"I don't think that's quite-"

"You want to call me "my lady" because my of who my parents were, who my brother was. But all of them are gone now. The lands we held are gone. There's nothing left but me, and I'm just Arya."

That shut the boy up for a good moment before he finally said, "As you wish, then."

But the exchange had made her angry. Then, as her words faded away, with nothing else to say between them, her worry over the Hound came flooding back. And what did it matter if he died? Valar Morghulis. She only wanted him around because he was good with a sword. But so was Brienne, and she and her stupid promise weren't going anywhere. Yet she was ready to punch the woman in the face if she suggested they dump the Hound and move on without him.

So she was loyal to her traveling companion, that was all. It didn't mean anything. Loyalty was just loyalty, it wasn't love. Like when Brienne had sought to take her from the Hound and he had fought her, it was just...

"Arya." Podrick's voice roused her from her thoughts. "What about here?"

Arya scanned the area, noting the placement of the rocks around them, the lines of sight, everything. "Yes. This will do." She turned her horse around to go back and realized that nothing seemed familiar. She hadn't been paying attention, hadn't noted any landmarks to help her get back.

"Arya?"

"I..." She looked for their track. Would she be able to follow it?

"Can you find your way back?"

"I'm not sure," she answered honestly. "Can you?"

"Yes. I'll go with you. We can both lead them back here."

"That's stupid. One of us is supposed to start the fire and get things ready," she slid from her horse, the matter already decided in her mind.

"_I'm _supposed to do that. _You're_ supposed to go back to Lady Brienne. I don't think I should leave you here by yourself." But even as he argued, he helped her untie his saddlebags.

"Give me the waterskins, too. I'll refill them while you're gone." Podrick was looking down at her uncertainly. "How long do you think my sister can keep that great brute in his seat? Get going."

When he finally rode off, Arya wasted no time hobbling her horse and gathering firewood. She also looked for long sticks she could use to build some kind of shelter against the side of the rocks, to protect at least the Hound from the rain she was now certain was coming. She'd choose the best spot for her shelter, and then site the fire close by.

She inspected each mound of standing stone, scratching around the base for loose earth and any snakes or other surprises that might be hiding there, noting the path water had taken from past storms at it flowed downhill toward the stream. Coming around the side of a boulder, she discovered a small, natural cave. If it was big enough, she wouldn't have to build a shelter after all. She needed torch to see by.

It was as she backed away, intent on getting back to the saddlebags that she noticed the tracks. Light indentations in the dried mud, but large and not hard to identify. She worked it out in the same moment she heard the low growl behind her. Hand moving slowly to Needle's hilt, she turned her head enough to look from the corner of her eye.

It stood on the ridge behind her, its head low, a ruff of thick, black fur, streaked with white, standing on end around its powerful shoulders. The growl became louder.

_Shadowcat._


	6. Chapter 6: Wolf girl

**A/N: Thanks so much for your continued support of this story. Magnus374- see me after.**

**Warning: I've been thinking about where this story's going. It's not there yet but...people, this is Westeros. Incest, non-con, underage, murder, mutilation, torture, the C word!, animal death-in short, an encyclopedia of savagery and depravity. We're not there yet-I'm not even sure where this is going-but if that stuff is going to be a problem, flee now. This probably isn't the story for you. This serves as your warning going forward. **

_Arya_

Arya kept her chin down, and only looked at the beast on the ridge from the corner of her vision as she backed slowly away from the Shadowcat's den. She tried to remember what Maester Luwin had taught her, what Uncle Benjen and the Winterfell soldiers had said about the creatures. One thing was that they usually left people alone, didn't attack unless they were starving. This one looked well-fed enough. But as its reflective eyes followed her progress, she had to believe it they'd also attack those who trespassed on their homes. Her decision made, blood pounding in her head and heart, Arya drew Needle in slow, smooth movement.

The great cat leapt, powerful haunches launching it into the air above her. Arya planted her feet, both hands on the hilt of her sword, pointy end aimed for the beast's heart. She felt the jar as it met, the resistance as it slid into flesh, but the blade was wrenched from her hands as she was pushed to the ground, crushed under the weight of the snarling creature. It's claws dug into her shoulder as it pressed her down before leaping away from her.

Arya rolled away, getting up quickly into a crouch with nothing but her bare hands in front of her. Needle lay in the dead leaves, between her and the Shadowcat, which paced slowly toward her, continuing its menacing growl. There was no running away, and while she wished for a dagger, Needle was all she had. _Valar Morghulis._ She launched herself toward her sword as the cat sprang at her. She felt its front paws meet her side, knocking her away from her weapon, and curled herself into a ball as she waited to be torn apart.

Suddenly, the weight of the cat was gone, and a new note of snarling entered the small clearing. A wolf was attached to the coat of the cat, and then another joined. More gold-brown wolves raced down from the woods, sleek bodies streaking through the brush. The cat screamed as the wolves tore its flesh, until one ripped its throat in a spray of blood that coated all of them.

Everything stopped. Arya found herself on her knees in the leaves, staring at half a dozen blood-covered wolves that stared back at her with lowered heads and golden eyes. She thought she should be afraid, but somehow, she wasn't. Perhaps she had gone past that. Perhaps she had gone mad.

She found herself raising her hand and the wolves reacted immediately, agitated and skittish, backing away with their heads lowered. Somewhere, far off in the forest, a howl echoed. As one the pack turned toward the sound and loped away, as silently as they had come, leaving Arya alone with the mangled body of the Shadowcat.

**xxxxxxx**

_Brienne_

The wolf's howl tore through Brienne, and she spurred her mount, uncaring that there was no road to follow. Though it was far away, she knew in her bones that something was terribly wrong. _Not again. Please, gods, not again. _

"To the left, my lady!" Podrick yelled behind her, and she reined sharply, correcting their course.

She spotted Arya, kneeling on the ground, half turned from her. Her clothes were torn at the shoulder, blood welling from cuts. Brienne's blood turned to ice at the way the girl just stared at nothing. She reined up right along side, dropping to a crouch behind the girl, sword drawn, wrapping her other arm around her and pulling Arya back against her chest.

"Where?" she demanded.

"Gone," Arya whispered, and it was the voice of a child, or a dreamer.

"Are you certain? Are you badly hurt?"

"There was a Shadowcat. I stumbled on its den, and it didn't like it."

"This isn't there usual range," she said, mostly to herself.

"Winter is coming."

Brienne took in the black and white pelt of the mutilated thing that lay mere feet from where Arya knelt. There was no way she could have done that. "And what else?"

"Wolves. Just a small pack of them, gold and brown ones, not grey like the wolves on our side of The Neck. It was attacking me, and they killed it, and then there was a howl, and they just...left."

Brienne hugged the girl back against her. "Thank the gods, old and new, for your protection," she whispered.

Arya pulled away from her and was rising to her feet as Podrick led Sansa's horse into the clearing. He must have gone back for them after seeing that Arya was safe. Sansa was no longer able to hold the reins herself. It was all she could do to keep the huge man on the horse with her.

"I didn't get to the fire yet," she told Brienne, seeming to recover herself at a speed that only children can. "But I did find a cave. I'm not sure if it's big enough. I was going to get a torch when..."

"That was the Shadowcat's den. I see. Will you let me see to it?"

Arya nodded and pointed the way.

Brienne hurried up the slope. Without a torch, she couldn't judge its size either, but she thrust in her sword in all directions and decided it was big enough-and probably not harboring anything toothy.

"Lead the horse up here, Pod!" she called out, forestalling any efforts to remove Clegane from his mount prematurely.

When the horse was a close to the cave as it would get, Brienne demanded a torch from Podrick and set Arya to starting the fire.

"We'll have you both down in a moment, Sansa. You can ease your grip. I'll take some of the weight."

Sansa relaxed a bit, and Clegane began to slip sideways. Brienne patted the horse to still it and braced the unconscious man with her shoulder, digging her boots into the ground.

"It's not so bad as it looks," Sansa told her. "When I was Arya's age, Robb and Theon both sat on me in a mudbank and tried to feed me worms. That's what I've been thinking about."

"Even full grown I'm not sure those two men together weigh as much as Clegane." There was an awkward pause as they both realized the present tense wasn't correct. "And how did you repay them?"

"It was Jon who came to my rescue. Took both of them on while I slipped away to tattle to mother and fuss about my dress. And I didn't thank him for it. I never thanked him." The girl's face was swamped with regret. But then she brightened. "And then I ground up worms, which was disgusting but I did it, and offered to help Cook make the meat pies the next day. I made sure they got the right ones. They never knew who really ate worms."

Brienne laughed as Podrick lit the torch and handed the tinderbox down to Arya. He crawled into the space, using the bedroll to sweep it out a bit before spreading it out.

"I think there's just enough room, my lady, though his feet may stick out a bit."

"He'll have to go in feet first, otherwise, he'll have trouble getting out again. He won't have room to sit up or turn 'round. Come here and help me catch him."

Getting Clegane off his horse was simple enough. Simple enough to knock both her and Podrick to the ground. Sansa, exhausted from her efforts, didn't have the strength to resist when his arm caught around her. She came down with him, landing on top of the pile, rolling off quickly in a tangle of skirts, sleeves, and hair. Wrestling him into the space was less simple, as none but Arya was small enough to fit inside easily, and she hadn't the strength to drag him in. It would have been easier to forget the cave and leave him outside, but the wind was already starting to pick up, and the air had the flavor of storm.

In the end, they got him in, and got a blanket mostly under him. She and Podrick got his armor off while Sansa attended to the wounds on her sister's shoulder. By the time the girls returned from filling the water skins, they had him stripped to his smallclothes, with a blanket tucked around him up to the gash on his chest.

As Brienne finished cleaning his latest injury, Sansa crawled into the small space beside him in the cave that Brienne couldn't possibly occupy. "Is it bad?" the younger woman asked.

Brienne was reminded that Sansa would have little experience seeing such things. "It's not serious, provided we care for it properly, and he has certainly borne worse. It will need stitching, though."

"I'll do it," Arya said, crowding in on Brienne's other side.

"I'll do it," Sansa argued, holding out her hand for the needle Brienne had produced from her supplies.

"He's let me do it before."

"If he'd ever seen your embroidery, he wouldn't have."

"He's not a tapestry!"

"Arya," Brienne interrupted the fight, "will you bring that torch closer?"

"You can't burn him. He won't want that, and I can't let you do it while he's asleep."

"It might slow the spread of the infection."

"No," the girl stated firmly. "No fire."

Brienne let her eyes study the network of scars that had turned half the man's face to a ruin. "As you say. Just for light then, all right? And you hold it."

Arya busy with the task of holding the torch closer to the wound on Clegane's neck, Brienne quietly passed the threaded needle to Sansa to sew up the wound on his chest.

"I'm going to cut away these old stitches, drain the wound and clean it, scrape away the dead flesh. I think it's festered too long to think of sewing it back up again. Pod." She chucked a sealed packet in the direction of the squire who was tending the fire. "Make a tea from these herbs. Make it strong. Strain it and save the herbs for a poultice." She turned back to Arya. "We'll use the tea to help cleanse the wound."

"Where did you learn this?" Sansa asked, bent to her task.

"For most of my life, I trained for war. But when war came, I learned that I needed to know more than just how to swing a sword. So I sought out those who were willing to share their knowledge."

"Did you save the Kingslayer," Arya asked, "when he lost his hand? Is that why he gave you that sword?"

Brienne's hands stilled for a moment in their delicate work, until she had mastered herself. "It was, in large part, the tragedy that befell Ser Jaime that pointed out the gaps in my education."

"The tragedy was that they missed his head," Arya stated flatly.

"This learning was how I spent my recent time in King's Landing," Brienne continued, choosing to ignore Arya. Her hatred of the Lannisters was understandable. "When Ser Jaime gave me the sword, and the armor, he bade me find the two of you and fulfill the vow we made your mother to see you safe."

"The Kingslayer swore an oath to our mother?" Sansa asked.

"Just to save his own arse," Arya gritted out.

"There was an element of that. But he came to realize the wrongness of using you girls as hostages and pawns in this war."

"What are noblewomen but hostages and pawns, whether there's war or not?" Sansa asked bitterly.

"We should all renounce our birthrights and take the Black," Arya decided.

Sansa chuckled, even her laughter light and musical, as a lady's ought to be. "Poor Jon. What would he do with that?"

"Piss himself, most like," Clegane slurred.

"You're awake!" both girls said together.

"Can a man sleep with so much chatter going about his head, and some sadistic bitch scraping his flesh from his bones?"

"You have a new cut on your chest." Arya informed him. "Sansa sewed it up for you, so it probably looks like a flower or a bird or something now."

"As long as it's not a prancing fucking li..." his words trailed off as he fell unconscious again.

**xxxxxxxx**

** Magnus374- You mentioned Nymeria at the end of the last chapter. This one was already written and waiting a final proofreading. Get out of my head! LOL. The fact that Arya's still alive and has managed so well makes me think the connection to her direwolf isn't totally broken. **


	7. Chapter 7: The night is long and

**A/N: So, this is sad. I saw the first four episodes of the season that were leaked, but I probably won't be able to see new ones for long time. Which is bummer, because even while I'm off in my AU, I still like bringing quotes back from things that happened. Once again, thank you for your continued encouragement. I'd love to hear more of your thoughts.**

_Sansa_

"The Mountain, Dunsen, Ilyn Payne, Meryn Trant, Cersei."

"What's that?" Sansa asked.

"Nothing. Go to sleep."

Sansa leaned back against the rough, cold stone. The curve of the wall forced her to bend her neck, and she longed to stretch out. She was sore all over. From hanging from the ledge, being dragged to safety, from trying to keep Clegane in the saddle... But how could she possibly complain? She removed the cloth from his forehead, soaked it in the dish of cool water at her side, wrung it out. But before she replaced it, she smoothed back his damp hair, allowed her fingers to soothe across his scarred skin. While most of him was drenched in fever sweat, the burned side of his head was curiously dry and odd to the touch. She had never allowed herself to admit that she had always wondered what it felt like. In the dark, with him too deep in sleep to know, she explored his face and tried not to explore the feeling that had punched through her chest when she first saw him again.

The lean-to they'd built around the front of the cave seemed to be keeping Arya and Podrick dry enough. Brienne was out keeping watch, and there was room enough for Sansa. Before she'd left, Brienne had given Sansa a look. The long, worried look of a septa that spoke volumes about impropriety. Which was kind of amusing, coming from a woman who spent her time in camps full of soldiers, and traveled the countryside in the company of Podrick Payne. Even Sansa had heard the rumors about Podrick Payne.

Sansa shifted again on the uneven ground, and drew her blanket close around her shoulders. Her head felt heavy, but she was loathe to move outside where she could lay it down.

_Just for a moment._

She leaned forward, feeling the heat from his body, then the brush of hair, then her cheek settled against his skin and his heart beat beneath her ear. It was wrong to touch him like this. She knew it was. Were he awake, she could never have gotten so close to him. Were there any light the others could see them by, she would never have dared. But just now she was alone, and she could think of all the times in the past months she'd been so alone, so afraid, and so filled with remorse that she had refused him the night of the Blackwater.

_Such a stupid girl,_ she thought, as her eyes drifted closed.

**xxxxxxx**

_Sansa_

Hands clamped down on her. It had become instinct to stifle her cries upon waking in the night, and she did so now. But the hands were real, as was the body she was pressed against, and she began to panic, putting her hands against the broad expanse of skin beneath her and pushing hard. But the hands held her, unrelenting. Her fingers brushed across a bandage and her mind recalled.

_Clegane._

_He won't hurt me._

He grasped her shoulders and dragged upward, draping her more fully across his body. Almost unconsciously, she straightened her cramped legs and stretched alongside him as he settled her, her head beneath his chin. One arm wrapped across her back, locking her in place. His other hand dove into her hair, fingers kneading her scalp in a rough caress. Feelings swirled within her, a churning mix of heat, embarrassment, and fear that brought tears of confusion to her eyes. But then, something in the quality of his movements, of his breathing, told her he wasn't awake. He wasn't really aware of what he was doing. Part of the tension in her broke like a sob, but still her heart pounded against her ribs like an animal in a trap, and she couldn't force herself to relax in his embrace. Nor could she make herself break free.

It was a long time before his grip slackened and his arms fell to his sides once more. She slid away and dragged herself outside, curling herself into a ball within her blanket, and willing sleep to claim her once again.

**xxxxxx**

_Brienne_

She had never hated rain so much as she did that night, after the storm had passed. The dripping water from the trees sounded so much like the snapping of branches, and in her mind every one was Locke and his men, come to reclaim their prisoner. There was no point in waking Pod for watch. She would get no sleep tonight.

Brienne lowered her hood and shook the rain from her cloak before drawing it more tightly about her, and tipping her gaze to the sky. Now that the storm had passed, she could glimpse a few of the constellations peeking out from behind the clouds. It was The Mother's Hand that she sought.

_Mother, I thank you for your protection of Sansa and Arya Stark, and for allowing my path to cross theirs. I pray for your continued blessings and guidance in the fulfillment of my vow._

She rolled her neck, trying to dispel the tensions of the day, the moments when Sansa had almost been lost, still so vivid they chilled her. The calm tone of Clegane's gravelly voice as he spoke to Sansa, and then the wild intensity of his eyes as he looked back up to Brienne. She recognized that look, that thing that in the moment felt like the purest determination, but would have been stark terror if only time allowed.

As Arya had held her, as she'd held Clegane, she relived those moments when she'd dragged Jaime from the bear pit.

"I found her," she whispered, "for Lady Catelyn, and for you."

A noise jerked her from her thoughts, short and sharp, but too far away to identify. When more sounds followed, she rose to her feet. When she recognized what she was hearing, she ran.

_Dogs._

Her long strides took her quickly away from the camp, in the direction where the horses were hidden and hobbled, some distance away. _The Bastard's Girls, Pod had called them when he talked about what he knew of the area during their journey to find Sansa. The hunting dogs of the traitor Bolton's son, Ramsay._ Clegane was an invalid, Sansa a proper lady, Arya a child. Podrick was a good and loyal squire, but still an untrained, untried lad. They would be no match for a vicious pack of dogs. The only hope was for Brienne to cross their path and lead the pack away from the camp.

She readied her horse as quickly as she could, now able to hear the shouts of men as well. Not many, perhaps, but too many for Podrick and Arya.

There was little light for riding, and the voices of the dogs seemed to echo all about her. Her mind was a chaotic whirl, frantic to make the right choices. Choices that seemed to take her in a confusing circling path, but ever farther from her charges.

A tree branch struck her, scraping hard against her face, the unexpected blow nearly knocking her from the saddle like a green boy. She righted herself, and leaned down over the horse's neck, feeling the heat of its exertion rise up to meet her.

"There!"

Her mount halted under her instinctive demand, and she turned back at the first recognizable words she had heard, the first that were close enough. Four men on horses, three of them armored, one of them pointing at her, and then a streak of dull color below them, and the frenetic barking and baying of dogs keen on a scent.

Brienne kicked her horse to action.

They flew through the night, unwary of direction or the uneven ground, Brienne's only sense that they were moving deeper into the forest, the trees becoming denser, the undergrowth deeper around them. The ground felt softer beneath them, Brienne's heart sinking at the thought that they were heading into marshland.

The horse shrilled, pulling up before an obstacle it couldn't jump. She reined in hard and forced her mount around, choosing a new direction. The men were far behind, traveling more carefully and trusting the dogs to see to her, but the first of the pack had reached her. Running full out beside the horse, it leapt and snapped its teeth at the horse's flank. Her horse screamed and faltered as it tried to sidestep at speed, brushing up against a tree on the other side as Brienne drew her sword and slashed down at the threat.

The dog yelped and rolled away into the night. but the others came on, closer now, two more on each side to snap and bite at her horse as she tried to maneuver. They splashed into shallow, murky water, mud that dragged at the feet of her mount as she pressed on. The dogs fell back a bit, struggling to stay above the surface, and she had put some distance between them when she reached the other side. Brienne veered her mount toward the first incline she could find, intent on finding drier ground for her horse that was breathing too hard now with exhaustion and fear.

Slowed by the climb, the dogs caught them up again, more of them now, and though she swung her sword from the saddle, she didn't think she caught any of them, now wary of the swing of metal. The horse screamed, halting and rearing dangerously, and she looked back to see that one of the dogs had caught its leg, its head swinging savagely as it clung. When the horse reared again, she held on to the pommel and leaned far back, a weak swing, but one that caught the beast, Oathkeeper's Valerian steel slicing into its flesh.

She yanked herself upright again, and drove the horse forward savagely. It stumbled a few steps, then took uneven flight once again.

The next she knew, Brienne was flying through the night alone. She hit the ground with stunning force, rolling and rolling, feeling the break and stabs of trees and plants beneath her. When her back cracked against a thick trunk was when she finally came to a stop. Hearing the screams of the dying horse and the savagery of the dogs above her, she didn't waste a moment taking stock, but scrambled to her feet and charged forward, running into the dark.


	8. Chapter 8: Misty watercolor memories

**A/N: Oops. I lost Stranger. I spent a good part of the day tracking down where I'd seen him last, because I could swear I didn't see him in The Vale at all. After combing video, I realize that after the fight that started this fic, Arya took her horse and Brienne took Stranger. My only excuse was that I was completely traumatized by The Hound's defeat. So let's pretend I didn't screw that up, and that all four characters had their horses stolen by the same horse thieves in The Vale, k? Maybe we'll find Stranger later. Meanwhile, please drop me a comment and let me know how you think it's going. I've done some work planning out the next little arc, but I'm running low on ideas. Meanwhile back to Brienne, who is still still being pursued by The Bastard's Girls...**

_Brienne_

Brienne's boots scraped against the rocks, the weight of her armor dragging her down as she struggled to keep her head above water. She finally had to sheath her sword and dig her gloved fingers into shallow handholds when her feet could not find purchase. Then she ceased to breathe as the dogs whined and snuffled above her, and prayed in silence that neither dogs nor men would find the place where she had slipped into the underground pool.

"Reek, get down there with the torch," a voice ordered.

"T-There's n-no sign of her, my lord."

"What a disappointment." Brienne recognized the tone of perpetual disgust affected by Roose Bolton. "Gather your dogs. We return to the Moat."

"But what of my bride? She's out here somewhere."

"If she is, then we shall find her, and hope the late King's dog has left enough of her for you to marry. Or perhaps the blood of the Starks ends here. Either way, it will be light soon, and you have business elsewhere."

"We should not have trusted to Littlefinger to deliver her."

"There is no _we._ Do not presume to counsel me on my affairs. The line of Bolton does not end with you, and I can raise up another heir."

"Of course, father, I would never."

"Indeed."

Brienne remained in the water, her arms straining to hold her up, until the chills that shook her body caused her armor to rattle against the rocks. Curse the dogs, she would have climbed out of this pit and taken Bolton's head. He'd sat across from her, breaking bread with her, all the time planning ride the next day for the Twins to betray her lady. She remembered Jaime's hand on hers that night, stilling her. She didn't think she would have stabbed Bolton with her dinner knife, but if she had, would Catelyn Stark still be alive?

She longed to avenge her lady, but, as fierce as Lady Stark had been, Brienne knew that protecting her daughters was more important to her than vengeance.

Before she lost the strength to do so, she dragged herself across the flooded cavern where an opening to the outside allowed the water to flow in, and scrambled over the rocks to the outside. Memories of that time still swirling in her head, she looked back at the pool.

_"My name is Jaime."_

She could still feel him in her arms.

Then another voice, from a different time and place.

_"But you love him." _

**xxxxxxxx**

_Sansa_

"Stop, you're hurting me! Let me go!"

Arya's cries ripped Sansa from her slumber, and she scrambled to disentangle herself from her blanket. Podrick was already there, one arm wrapped around Arya's waist, trying to pull her from the Hound's clutching hands, the other going for the dagger at his belt.

"What have you done?" he roared.

Sansa threw herself across his chest, and tried to pry away the hands that could snap her sister's neck. "Stop! What are you doing? Stop!" She snapped her head to look at his face and saw the fever-bright vacancy of his eyes. She slid between his arms, crawling up his chest between him and Arya, between him and Podrick's blade. "Clegane, please!" She took his face between her two hands, smoothing hair back from the burned side of his face. "Please."

He released Arya, and she and Pod fell backward in a tangled heap of grunts and curses as Clegane's hands gripped Sansa's shoulders and yanked her forward. "Little bird, you should not be here."

"Where are we?" she asked him. He stared back at her, confused, angry, dangerous. _You won't hurt me. You won't hurt me._ She stroked her thumbs across his beard, willing him to remember that. "Tell me where we are."

"Have they hurt you?" His gaze searched her face, the movements too quick, his eyes still unclear.

"I am well. But you're not. You're dreaming. You must wake."

"Feels like they've put my head on a pike and forgot to take it from my body first." He blinked rapidly. He was waking. "Going to be sick," he groaned, and she slid to the ground as he rolled to his side. Sansa made to scramble out of the way, then thought better of it, spreading the full skirt of her traveling dress beneath him as he let loose. It was all she could do to support his shoulders, helping to keep him from rolling to his back before the retching stopped. She eased him back, though he fell the last bit, as Arya and Podrick stood by and did absolutely nothing. Sansa made quick work of her laces, slipping out of the dress and using the sleeve to clean his face before balling up the mess and casting it aside. She felt a blanket settle over her shoulders as she soaked a cloth in the small bowl of water from the night before and glanced back to see a sheepish looking Podrick gathering her discarded dress and dropping it outside the shelter.

"You just used your dress as a puke bucket. You are not my sister."

"Shut up."

"Oh, it _is_ you."

Sansa pressed the back of her wrist to his forehead, the way her mother would, then her cheek. But she had not the experience to measure what she felt. Clegane continued to mutter as she ran the wet cloth over his face and neck. "How long has he been like this."

"I don't know. He woke me up talking in his sleep, so I went to check on him, and next thing I knew, he'd tried to kill me."

"If he were trying to kill you, I think you'd be dead," Pod said dryly.

"Where's Brienne?" Sansa demanded. "She'll know what to do."

Podrick's brows drew down, concerned. "She should have woken me for a watch." He poked his head outside. "She's not on the ridge. She should have come when Arya yelled."

"Please go look for her."

"Yes, my lady."

"But don't go far!"

"Very well, my lady."

"And, um, Podrick, do you have an extra set of clothes?"

"Of course, my lady."

Podrick deposited a bundle with an embarrassed nod and took off to look for Brienne. Sansa crawled the small distance to the opposite side of the shelter to rid herself of her shift and slip into the unfamiliar garments. Arya just looked on like her world was turning upside down. Sansa unpinned a scrap of cloth from inside her shift, and found a place to pin it inside the borrowed tunic.

"What's that?" Arya asked.

Sansa blushed. She thought if she didn't try to hide it, her sister would be less likely to ask questions. "It's just a handkerchief. A lady should always carry a handkerchief."

_"You'll be needing that again."_

Arya snorted while Sansa re-laced her boots in silence. While Arya had favored boys' clothes when she was little enough to get away with it, Sansa never had. It felt strange, disconcerting, to be considered dressed and yet feel so...free.

"I need to go down to the stream and rinse my dress. If he stirs again, try to give him the waterskin."

"I'll do it."

"Are you volunteering to wash my clothes?" Then she understood. "Arya, he didn't mean it. He didn't know it was you."

"He knew it was you."

"That's different."

"How is it different?"

"Because I didn't cut my hair and dress up as a boy, I suppose."

Arya snorted. "I've spent weeks with him, with my hair cut and dressed up as a boy. And you've spent a few hours with him with your hair dyed black."

Sansa didn't have answer.

"D'you think he dreams about you?" Arya asked.

"Go wash my dress then."

"Why would he? He talked about you, though. About how he saved you from a mob in King's Landing."

"I don't want to talk about that."

"He said he should have taken you when he left. Well, he said some other things, because, you know, he's the Hound."

"Are you going to wash out my dress or not?"

"Fine, I'm going."

"Take the empty waterskins with you."

"I'm not stupid, you know."

Sansa held her tongue. When Arya had left, she crept cautiously into her spot beside Clegane.

"I'm sorry your head pains you. I wish I had something for it." _I wish I had gone with you that night. _She had never let that thought have words before, and even that scared her. What would have happened, if she had slowed his flight from King's Landing? What would have happened, when they realized she was gone? The Queen's loss of her bargaining chip to get Ser Jaime back, Joffery's loss of his favorite toy.

_"One evening, Gregor found his brother playing with a toy by the fire..."_

"A long time ago, you asked me for a song..."


	9. Chapter 9: Curious questions

_Arya_

As Arya climbed the hill back to camp, the last strains of the Mother Song drifted down to her. She scowled. It had been something Mother had sung to them. A prayer, of sorts. It was not the sort of thing Sansa liked to sing.

And why was she singing, anyway?

Arya stalked up the rise and slung the sodden dress over a tree branch, not caring that part of the skirt lay on the ground.

"I can't find her!" Podrick charged into the camp, looking frantic. "She's nowhere to be found, and one of the horses is missing." Sansa crept out shelter. Podrick blushed and turned away quickly, as though seeing her sister in trousers was somehow indecent. Arya rolled her eyes. "I'm going to ride out to look for her."

It was on the tip of Arya's tongue tell him she was coming, too, but Sansa spoke first. "You can't."

"My lady?"

"Podrick, please. I understand your concern. I share it. But you can't leave us unprotected."

Arya snorted, but Podrick's face screwed up, clearly trying to figure out where his duty lay. "I'll go then," she decided.

"No." Podrick's voice was uncharacteristically decisive. "Lady Sansa's right. We should stay together. Either we leave Clegane and go in search of Lady Brienne together, and find our way out of Bolton's territory, or we wait until he's fit to travel and hope to find my lady then."

"I'm not leaving the Hound behind," Arya said flatly, crossing her arms and daring them to argue.

"Nor I," Sansa agreed. "I like and respect Lady Brienne, Podrick, but Clegane has looked after my sister, and I owe him other debts as well. I would not abandon him."

Arya narrowed her eyes. Color stained her sister's cheeks, and she wondered about these "other debts."

Podrick nodded sadly.

"The tea you made yesterday," Sansa asked, "are there more of those herbs?"

**xxxxxxx**

_Cersei_

The tittering echoes of laughter followed Cersei and her guards as she marched away from Margaery's rooms. Rage fountained inside her, hot and consuming as any passion she had felt. Joffrey was gone. Jaime, Father, Myrcella, and now that thorn-Rose bitch would take Tommen from her as well.

The stupid girl was playing. Testing her power. She had all too much confidence in it, all too much willingness to use it to manipulate her world to her own ends. Cersei understood that, shared it, but she had waited too long for power herself, and she would not let this babbling child take it from her. It was times like these, the tedious verbal sparring with Margaery, that Cersei missed the innocent, frightened Sansa Stark. Her biddable little dove. Tywin had never seen the value in making her Queen, especially after the North was crushed by Frey's treachery, but Tywin's games had been different from hers.

Now he was dead. Did that mean she was winning?

Cersei swept through corridors, ignoring the bowing and scraping of everyone she passed. She dismissed her guards well beyond the door to Qyburn's laboratory.

Inside, she held a scented handkerchief to her face to filter the acrid smell of chemicals and the fetid scent of death, and counted herself fortunate that his dissection tables were empty today.

"What can I do for you, Your Grace?"

"I came to speak of poison."

**xxxxxxx**

_Jaime_

"You're thinking of her again," Bronn said, pouring another cup of wine and leaning back in his seat.

Jaime forced his gaze away from the tavern's window, and the desert strangeness of the Dornish landscape. "Am I? Who is that?"

"Well, when you're thinking of the sinister, magical, golden Lannister cunt, you get an entirely different look, so it's not your sister. It's the other one."

Jaime's hand tightened on the dinner knife he didn't know he'd been holding and he gestured with it as he spoke. "You should watch your tongue."

Bronn just chuckled. "It's not sinister and magical then? It doesn't draw men to her and destroy them?" He waved his cup at Jaime's expression. "Very well, I yield, and offer my apologies besides."

Jaime leaned back, years of learning not to show too much when it came to Cersei allowing him to let the comments roll off. He raised a brow at the sellsword. "You seem to study my expressions very closely these days. Should I be worried?"

"Ha! Your virtue is safe from me, Lannister, such as it is."

Jaime thought he would let it go. But of course not. Bronn wasn't one for letting things go, not when he could fill a silence with the sound of his own voice.

"You've gone over all melancholy again, the way you do when you're thinking of the Beauty."

"Don't call her that." _Not when you don't see it._

"Didn't mean anything by it. What shall we call her, then?"

"Oh, I don't know, perhaps _Lady_ Brienne of Tarth?"

"I was there, don't forget, when you sent her on her way. _Lady_ Brienne of Tarth, with her sapphire eyes, looking back over her shoulder as she rode away. And you, staring after her, all melancholy and broody-like."

"I don't know how my brother ever put up with you as long as he did."

"I have a gift for insinuating myself into the company of friendless rich folk who don't have much other choice. Ah, I miss that privileged little shit. He was a lot more fun than you are."

**xxxxxxxx**

_Brienne_

"It is an honor to have the Lady of Tarth visit the Moat once again. I only wish that the circumstances were different, and that I could arrange different accommodations. But I'm sure you understand my caution."

Brienne leaned back against the wall of her dungeon cell, mulishly ignoring Lord Bolton. She crossed her arms over her chest.

"My men tell me you successfully delivered Jaime Lannister to her father. Congratulations. If your armor and that sword we found are any indication, it seems you were well rewarded for your efforts."

Everything had been taken from her, including her boots. She was left with tunic, breeches, and stockings, but she felt naked under the lord's gaze. At least it wasn't another ill-fitting dress. Again, she refused to give Bolton the satisfaction of a response.

"I, too, understand the importance of rewarding loyal service. I promised a reward to my retainer, Locke. Jaime Lannister deprived him of that reward. But now you're back," Bolton said smoothly, his lips curling into a sneer. Her head shot up as he unlocked the door, allowing four of his guards to enter before him. "Let's try to leave a bit for him to play with when he returns from the North, shall we?"

Brienne lashed out as the men came for her, elbowing one to the face, kicking another in the stomach so that he doubled over and fell away, punching another and feeling the crunch of his nose against her fist. Then a mailed fist slammed into the side of her head, sending her spinning, and something struck her middle. She hunched, almost falling to one knee. A hand jerked her up by the hair and the slap she took to the jaw reminded her of the slap of the bear. She fell against another body, pushed away, tried to strike out, but hands seized one arm, then the other, and though she struggled, she was held fast in their grip.

"Shhhh...hush now. All I want to know is, where is Clegane going with the Stark girl?"


	10. Chapter 10: The dog wakes

**A/N: I hope you're not getting impatient with me. It's just...neither of them seemed particularly trusting starting out. I think they need some time together before they jump into any sort of intimacy. Part of it's easier for Sansa because she's known love. Well, you know the color of the ship. Point being, I know it's hard to wait, and I don't need to document every interaction that brings them closer, but neither do I want to make them into people they're not just to get them together faster. Give it a few more chapters to pay off, okay? I'll try to keep you entertained. So much love to those of you who comment. It doesn't matter if it's just a few words. You are awesome. **

_Sandor_

"If one of you doesn't bring my pants by the time I count five, I'm dropping this blanket and going after them myself," Sandor growled, struggling to keep himself half decent as he dragged himself from the cave. He got to his feet, but immediately staggered sideways, and when his arm shot out at the wall to catch himself, the loose pile of sticks and brush crashed to the ground.

"Clegane, please, you can hardly stand." Sansa shoved beneath his arm, catching and steadying him.

Sandor shoved her away, shocked by her touch, and rocked back against the cave entrance. He felt the flush rise under his skin, and hoped it looked like anger rather than embarrassment. "One!"

"Right away!" the boy squeaked, but hadn't taken two step before Sandor stopped him in his tracks.

"Not you. You go fetch the horses. And be quick about it. Two!"

"Oh for gods' sake," Arya snapped, stalking away. "Like the sight of you in your smallclothes is going to scare us into submission. Who d'you think's been taking care of you the last two days? See any Silent Sisters 'round here?" She threw her arms out and gave him one of her snotty brat looks before turning to a tree and whipping his clothes from a branch where they hung next to Sansa's dress.

Sandor took stock. He felt way too clean and smelled way too decent for someone who'd been down with a fever for two days. The thought of the girls touching him and looking at him while he was asleep was humiliating and pissed him off. He turned his glare on Sansa who was looking at her feet, blushing furiously. "What are you got up as?" he barked.

The brat stalked back and threw his clothes at his chest. "She's been wearing Pod's clothes since you puked all over her, you ungrateful brute."

"Armor!" he ordered, then turned to Sansa, his anger and shame barely allowing him to lower his voice. "Looks clean enough now. Get it on so we can be gone from here."

"I don't want it."

"Going to take after your sister now, cut your hair and play at bein' a lad?"

"I thought about it." She used that haughty, highborn lady tone that made him want to sit at her feet and wag his tail.

He almost reached out and grabbed the long braid she was toying with. "Don't you dare." Her pale blue eyes shot to his. "Wouldn't work anyway," he grumbled. "Yer too old for that nonsense. You don't want to wear the damned thing, fine. Go and pack it then." _And let me put on some damned clothes._

As soon as her back was turned, he slipped the tunic over his head, allowing him some cover when he dropped the blanket and stepped into his pants. He was tying the laces when the brat dumped his armor at his feet.

"You should have left me and let Tarth take you on from here. Gods damn you all, I thought you had more sense, brat."

"You're welcome."

"Shut it. Pack up the rest of this stuff. What's keeping the boy? How far away _are_ the horses?"

"Far enough."

Sandor dropped onto a rock and shoved his feet into his boots, lacing them quickly. He hefted his studded jerkin. When in the Hells had it gotten so heavy? "Far enough so you couldn't get to them and ride off if you needed to. Lackwits."

"Far enough so they wouldn't give us away. We couldn't ride off because we couldn't get you back on your horse, you huge, mangy, ungrateful dog!"

**xxxxxx**

_Sansa_

Sansa watched the interaction between her sister and Clegane. He snapped and roared at her, and he seemed genuinely angry, but she had no fear of him. Sansa had always been frightened when the Hound had barked at her, always quick to stammer apologies and try to find pretty words to soothe his temper. But Arya snapped right back and hurled insults at one of the most feared men in the Seven Kingdoms. And they seemed accustomed to it.

Sansa approached cautiously, but when he seemed to struggle with his armor, she moved forward quickly to help him fit it over his body. He growled at her, but she pretended to ignore him, and went about the business of helping to outfit him without saying at a word.

Podrick appeared with the horses. "Get the saddlebags tied on, boy. Brat, scatter the ash and get rid of all this brush. "If your sister rides with you, d'you think you can keep from maiming her with that glorified pig-sticker of yours?"

Sansa wanted to protest, to find some way to suggest she should ride with him, in case he had trouble staying in the saddle again. But there was no way to say that without arousing his anger. And while she was concerned, she really didn't want to be that close to him while he was awake.

They headed east, keeping off the road, and stayed closer together than before. By the time they stopped to make camp, they were all exhausted. Sansa watched tensely as Clegane slung himself down from his mount. He nearly fell to the ground, but she didn't help him. Arya and Podrick began to gather sticks, but Clegane snapped at them, "No fire. If it draws attention, I'm too bloody tired to fight off a bunch of treasure hunters for you fucks."

"When are we going to start traveling north again?" Arya asked.

"We're not going fucking north." He dropped down on a rock like his legs weren't holding him up.

Everyone paused in what they were doing to look over at him, then went back to work. Sansa moved nonchalantly into his space and reached for the bindings of his armor. "Leave it," he snapped. "I'm keeping it on."

It was on the tip of her tongue to argue, about seeing to his wounds, his comfort, but she held back.

"Why not?" Arya asked.

"Why not. What d'you mean why not? You're a bloody Stark, aren't you? Winter is coming."

"But you said-"

"And now I'm sayin' different. It's one thing to dump a little savage like you up there. I'd almost feel sorry doin' it to the wildlings. But what about these two? How long you think they'd last up there if your bastard brother can't hold the Wall?"

Arya looked like she would argue, so Sansa cut her off. "Where then?"

"Tarth."

"But," Podrick screwed up his face into the more intense version of the confused expression he often wore, "if Bolton's got her, he would have taken her back to Moat Cailin. That's back the other way."

"When I can hardly find the strength to hold my own cock to piss, d'you think I propose taking you lot o' children and fighting our way into Moat Cailin and back out again? Not the Beast of Tarth, I mean the island. We go east to Widow's Watch, find us a boat to take us to Lord Selwyn. Tell him what's become of his daughter. If it's in his power, he'll send help to her. But in any case, he's the sort of decent man who'd harbor you pathetic lot, maybe be convinced to part with some coin for passage across the Narrow Sea. With your aunt dead, you've got nowhere left to go but to your brother at the Wall. They'll be looking for you there. Littlefinger knows about Tarth's connection to you, but once word gets out she's Bolton's prisoner, or dead, or whatever happened to her, that connection's over, and there's no reason to suspect you'd seek out her father, who's got no reason help you. Except that's what fucking nobles like Starks and Tarths do."

"I think that might actually make sense," Arya said.

"Well thank you so fucking much," Clegane sneered at her. "What's left to eat?"

Pod cleared his throat nervously. "Not much," he answered, a loud pause following where he might have pointed out that Clegane, after sleeping for two days, had devoured nearly everything they had.

"Brat, go see what you can find, eh? Gods I could go for a chicken."


	11. Chapter 11: Training Montages

**A/N: I have a question for the GoT/ASoIaF experts. I've read in a couple different fics about the Mountain killing his father and sister. Is that canon or just logical supposition? **

_Jaime_

_Jaime the Goldenhand,_ he thought, as he brought up his sword to block his opponent, grinning madly as he drove his steel hand into the man's stomach. He spun to meet the next attacker, his sword coming down in time to block another strike, his timing perfect. _So much more elegant than "Kingslayer." I do hope it sticks._ He parried, struck and was blocked, then sensed movement from behind him. He whirled again, reaching out to catch a blade with the steel hand while meeting the other with the left. A twirl of both arms disarmed both men at once.

"Yield!" they said in unison, holding up their hands and taking a step back.

A slow beat of applause sounded from the wall, and Jaime gave Bronn a sweeping bow. A flourish of his blade paid homage to his instructor, and Bronn nodded in acknowledgment.

Jaime Lannister was back.

He dismissed the men and approached the arrogant sellsword. "What have you found?"

"Map," Bronn told him, shaking a roll of paper under his nose. "Among other things."

"Let's go inside. I'm parched."

Inside the quaint, and more importantly, isolated villa they had taken for their use while they planned Myrcella's release, it was dark and cool, the windows covered against the harsh midday sun of Dorne, the air moving through small, decorative carvings in the stone.

"This came for you as well." Bronn handed over a scrap of parchment.

"Came for me? What does that mean?"

"I was in the marketplace, waiting for the acquaintance I was talking about, when some boy ran into me. Stuck that note in my pocket, said, 'For Jaime,' and took off again before I could grab the little fuck."

Jaime's brows drew down. Who knew he was going to Dorne? Cersei, but she wouldn't know to look for him with Bronn. Who else? He unrolled the scrap of paper. It was full of numbers, grouped in threes.

"Tyrion."

"Oh aye? And how'd you get that from that mess?"

"Who else would send me cypher? Tyrion and his books. I'll need some time to work this out. If Tyrion sought me out here, it could be important."

"But how did the Imp know where to find you?"

"He's with Varys. I suspect there's little he doesn't know." Jaime pulled took a book from among his things and dropped the heavy tome on the table. Somewhere across the Narrow Sea, there was an identical copy of this historical text. "What did you learn from your friend?"

"Little things. The location of the Princess's rooms, the identities of her guards, the best people to bribe, that sort of thing. There's a party, a week from tomorrow, which seems a good time."

Jaime smiled, drawing parchment and ink toward him. "Excellent." Their information indicated that Myrcella was still being treated well. They could wait another week. Jaime would continue to train. The numbers in Tyrion's message indicated page, line, and word from the text. He began scribbling.

Bronn poured wine for both of them, but Jaime ignored it. It was a short message, but all the flipping through the book took time. Twenty words that turned his blood to ice.

_"The lord of Moat Cailin has stolen your sapphire. Make haste if you have any wish to reclaim your treasure."_

"It has to be tomorrow night. Start now on those bribes. Work out the plan."

"But next week-"

"Tomorrow. Night. And we'll sail from the Sunspear. Make arrangements."

"Now I know you've gone mad. You want to steal the princess and then ride right through the captiol on your way out of the country? We agreed to travel by land."

"That was before. Crossing the Red Mountains will take time we don't have." _"Make haste."_

Bronn grumbled to himself, words not intended for Jaime to understand, but very likely very colorful. "As you wish, my lord."

**xxxxx**

_Sandor_

The Hound decided to take his practice on the deck of the small ship. No point hiding in the hold. curse his face, curse his height, he was one of the most recognizable men in Westeros. He had to rely on fear to keep the sailors quiet. Gods knew if he put them all to the sword, the bloody Starks would never let him hear the end of it. So he took his practice out on deck, the better to remind the ship's crew to keep their fucking mouths shut.

"Is that all you got, boy?" he snarled at Podrick, driving the lad back across the planks. In truth, the boy wasn't so bad. He even recognized some of Tarth's moves. Seems she was teaching him something. He shoved the squire in the chest, sending him stumbling backward and took several large steps back before moving into a stance. "Again. Come at me."

In too short a time, he was out of breath, and the pain and exhaustion were wearing on his temper. "Enough!" he roared, before he lost control and took the boy's head off for real. "Take a break and drink some water. And remind me later to give you some exercises to build up those puny arms of yours. You hit like a gel."

"What about me?" Arya asked, handing him a skin that was sadly full of water and not wine. "Will you show me?"

"No."

"Why? Because I don't hit like a girl?" The brat scrambled up to sit on the crates he was leaning against, stacked near the quarterdeck.

"You're more like a mosquito, buzzing around and poking at things." She elbowed him hard in the gut, but he wiped spilled water off his chin and ignored it. "Doesn't matter what you do, you'll always be a scrawny little gel. Best stick to your dancin'."

"You're an arse."

"Aye."

"Brienne's not scrawny. And she almost bested you."

"Almost don't count, brat. Brienne's not the same sort of creature you are. A kitten can pounce and claw and try to roar, but it's never going to grow up to be a lion."

"I don't want to be a bloody lion. Show me that block you showed Podrick."

Sandor sighed. "Leave me alone, you great pain my arse."

"Come on. It won't take long."

"I told you to-"

"Arya," Sansa snapped, "Clegane is tired. He's pushing himself too hard."

Arya studied him. He tilted his head so his hair fell over the side of his face, uncomfortable with her intense scrutiny. Then she gave her sister the same long, assessing look. "You never call him The Hound anymore. You used to, but now you don't."

Sansa's mouth dropped open, which was interesting. She wasn't often taken by surprise anymore. "He's not The Hound anymore."

"Of course he is," the brat said, like Sansa was a complete idiot. "He'll always be The Hound."

"Then you'll always be a stupid little girl. I was the prince's betrothed, the traitor's daughter, Princess of the North, the Imp's bride-and now what I am?"

"My stupid sister. Like you always will be."

Sandor knocked her off the crates. "Tha's enough, brat. I'm The Hound, right enough, and I'll take a bite out of you if you don't get yerself gone from here. If you want to see the block, ask Podrick to show you. And we'll see if either one of you can get it right."

She threw her baleful glare at each of them in turn and stalked off.

He took a drink, expecting the little bird to follow her sister, but she didn't. "Going to make me pretty apologies now, for your sister's bad behavior?"

"No."

"And why not?"

"Because you don't like my pretty apologies. And you don't really mind her bad behavior. Indeed, it's flourished under your tutelage."

It took him a moment to work out what she'd said, and then a laugh tore from his throat.

**xxxxxx**

_Sansa_

Sandor Clegane was laughing.

Not the derisive chuckle that made her feel stupid, but a gravelly, unused rasp of a laugh that transformed his face and took her breath away. As soon as his eyes met hers, he cut it off and looked away, and she schooled the shocked look from her face.

"That girl's mouth. If your parents were alive, gods rest them, there'd be nowhere in the Seven Kingdoms where I could hide from their wrath."

"They would be forever in your debt for what you've done. As I am," she added softly.

He shifted and glared at her. "Back to your pretty words, little bird? Go find a pretty face to chirp at."

"I like your face well enough." It would have come off better if it hadn't come out so breathless and weak-sounding.

The world spun as he grabbed her by the shoulders and turned them, as in a wild dance, switching their positions and backing her up against the crates. He loomed large above her, leaning in so close she could feel his breath on her face. "Tell me you like it now, my lady. And remember how often I've seen you lie. Tell me you aren't afraid of The Hound."

She bit back the instinct to cry that he was hurting her. He wasn't. It was just a thing she would say to push him back. She wouldn't tell him she wasn't afraid, because her heart hammered, there was a fine trembling in her limbs, and he would never believe her. But neither did she want to run away. Holding her breath, holding his gaze with her own, she raised her hands to his face, settling them lightly against his cheeks as she had while he slept.

He seized her wrists and growled at her. "Makes no matter what you call me, or what sweet words you use. I'm a rabid dog, and I will never be your pet." He shoved her back as he released her wrists and stalked away.

"It's not a pet I want," she whispered. Though what she did want, she couldn't name.


	12. Chapter 12: Let's clarify something

**A/N: Big thanks to _Magnus374_ for answering my question (and for ALL of your reviews). I totally don't remember that part. You're awesome. _CatTheWall_, thank you for your enthusiasm. I've been trying to keep up with posting a chapter a day. Housekeeping has suffered grievously.**

**"Innocence" by Halestorm has become my new SanSan theme song.**

**I hope you'll all be pleased with this. If you like how it came out, I'd love to know it.**

_Sandor_

"I get it now."

"What d'you get, brat?" Sandor lowered himself to his customary seat on a crate inside the enclosure they'd made in the hold to give the girls privacy during the trip. Sansa had gone to fetch their dinner, and the boy had gone to look after her.

"I've been thinking about what Sansa said the other day, about you not being The Hound anymore."

"Your sister doesn't know what she's talkin' about."

"All this time I've been running all over the countryside, people say 'The Hound,' it puts a fear in them. They might talk brave, but there's a look they get, you know? 'The King's shield, he'll hack you to pieces if you get too close.'"

Sandor snorted at that.

"Even when some people said you ran from the Blackwater, that you dishonored your vow, that didn't spread like other news, because people were afraid to repeat it. Afraid for other people to think they believed it, so they didn't, 'cause they didn't want it to get back to you that they believed it."

"You're makin' my head ache. D'you have some kind of a point?"

"That's what I think when I hear 'The Hound.' The second most feared man in the Seven Kingdoms."

"Second most, eh?"

"Second to the Mountain."

"Naturally. Wouldn't have some other name bein' more feared than me."

"You're not taking me seriously. And I do have a point."

"Get onto it then."

She shifted to get more into his line of vision, so he shifted to pretend to study something on his boot and hid his smile at irritating her. "All that time, while I was escaping, Sansa was stuck at court. And I remember what it was like there. I remember how the prince spoke to you, ordered you about. At court, you were the Prince's dog. You let him treat you like one." She looked hard at him, trying to puzzle something out. "Why did you swear to him?"

"Did it when he was a babe. Didn't know he was going to turn out to be such a fuckin' prick, did I?" He sighed. "And I was young, and tragically stupid, and the money was good. I was so young and so stupid, I thought that since Gregor served the Lannisters, if I went to work for them, I could get close enough to put a sword in him one day. It was a while before I realized that I'd tied my own hands. That if I'd broken with my House and served another lord, I might meet him on a battlefield someday and get away with killin' him clean. Tha's how stupid I was."

"You're right, that was stupid. But then you left Joffrey during the Blackwater. Because you finally saw what a vicious, cowardly beast he was."

"Didn't take that long to see it. Just took that long to get to the end of my tolerance."

The brat nodded. "And you offered to take my sister with you."

"Aye, and she chose to stay with the little monster."

"She said...she said she owes debts to you." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the way the brat's head tilted sideways and her eyes narrowed.

"I don't know what she's talking about. She owes me nothing."

"Well, she's grateful for something. That's why she won't call you 'dog' anymore."

He sighed again. His head hurt, and the wound on his neck still throbbed from his sparring with Podrick. "Are ya done now?"

She was quiet for a moment, and that was worrisome. It was her thinking quiet; that never boded well.

"Do you think...do you think my sister-?"

"I don't think a gods damn thing about yer sister," he snapped, "except that she's a stupider child than I was when I swore my oath. At least I can say he was a babe and I didn't know any fucking better. But she knew what he was-what they all were. How they all wanted to use her and trade her and punish her for her kingly brother's crimes. I told her I'd take her to her family, that I'd keep her safe. And she thought she was safer with that pretty pack of jackals than with-"

He was interrupted by a fit of coughing. Podrick stood behind Sansa's shoulder, clearing his throat. Arya jumped up to take the tray from her sister and set it on the floor. Sansa's face bore that calm, empty mask she'd worn at court, the one she wore to lie. She lowered herself to the floor where she knelt and began to serve the meal. Podrick scrambled to serve wine, which was really what the boy was best at.

The meal was tense and too bloody quiet. The brat seemed to have come to the end of her endless chatter. The boy had no more stupid stories or histories of the great Houses to babble on about. Sandor kept his eyes on his food, but felt the others watching him. _Fuck them. Fuck the lot of them. I said she was a stupid child. 'S nothing I haven't told her before._ But he was embarrassed by what he had said to the brat. Not because he'd insulted her sister, but because he'd given voice the part of the whole business that really pissed him off-that she had chosen Joffrey over him. Hearing his words replay in his head, he felt a flush creep up his neck.

"Can't they find anything to feed us but fish?" Sandor tossed his plate down with the others. The metal dishes clattered, and Sansa's cup overturned. Podrick leapt to right it and clean up the spill.

"You're in a foul mood," the brat observed.

"Well it's no wonder, being stuck on this piece of shit barge with you lot."

Sansa began to pile the dishes back onto the tray. "Perhaps you need some time to yourself." Her voice was smooth and cold.

"That would be lovely," he sneered.

Podrick picked up the tray and Sansa rose gracefully, shooing the children from the enclosure. Their voices carried from outside the makeshift wall for a moment, but not loud enough to be understood. Sandor dropped his head into his hands, rubbing his scalp, feeling the contrast of right and left, scarred and unscarred.

Two small boots came into view, and before he could lift his head, Sansa sank to her knees between his feet.

"What are you about?"

"I have to speak with you."

"Well do it from over there!"

She flinched slightly, from his tone, from the quick jerk of his arm near her face, but she didn't move.

"In the Red Keep, on the night of the Blackwater-"

"Gods," he muttered, an abridged sort of prayer to have them swallow him up so he wouldn't have to suffer whatever she would say.

"You said you wouldn't hurt me. You told me you would keep me safe."

"Aye, and did you believe me?"

"Yes."

"The fuck you did," he snarled. "Why stay with Joffrey, then? Out of love? Or because you still hoped he would make you his queen. And then what? If his cast-iron bitch of mother couldn't control him, what made you think-"

"No."

He growled. He had no interest, not in the past, nor in her, nor in whatever story she thought was worth telling about it now. He moved to rise.

"Please, just listen a moment. Sandor."

It was his name on her lips that stopped him, and her hand on his knee. Soft. Burning.

"What then?"

"Joffrey would never just let me go back to my brother. He would have hunted us."

"So what?"

"So-? Don't you see? It was bad enough you left him, but to have taken me? His betrothed, his hostage, his _toy_? His pride couldn't suffer that. He would have sent every man he could find after you."

"I told you that I would keep you safe."

"And who would keep you safe? How could I be that selfish? Was I to stand on the steps of sept and watch Joffrey take another good man's head? Was I to stand on the battlements and look at your head on a spike until it pleased Joffrey that I should stop?"

He stared at her, trying to make sense of what she saying. It sounded like she believed she had been protecting him from his own folly. He'd offered to take her _away._ To _save_ her. Why should she care the risk to him? But whatever it was she was saying, she meant it. The court mask, the flat look in her eyes was gone, replaced by emotions he didn't understand.

"There now," he muttered, cupping her cheek to catch a tear from the corner of her eye, "don't do that."

She closed her eyes and turned her lips to his palm.

"Don't," he breathed.

And then she was rising, and whether it was of her own accord or whether he was dragging her up to him he didn't know, but she was in his arms. Then her lips were on his, moving, opening for him, and then he was in her mouth, tasting her, and gods, she was the sweetest thing he'd ever known.

**xxxxxxx**

_Sansa_

His kiss consumed her.

She didn't think, couldn't think, she just gave to him. Anything he asked for, and would have given him more if she'd known what to offer. Anything he asked for with nothing but his hands and his mouth, and that relentless, driving energy that always seethed beneath his surface. He pulled her into his lap, allowing his hand to smooth firmly up her leg until it clamped tight around her thigh. His mouth bruised hers, no insistent pressing of lips, but slashing and grinding, forcing her mouth to open for his tongue to thrust inside.

Her head fell back onto his open hand as the sensation swamped her, as he filled her, claimed her. Every stroke of his tongue against hers bringing forth a wave of sensation that pulled her under, brought forth a gasp that was caught by his mouth. Then his lips slid to her jaw, down her throat as she drew great heaving breaths and tried to turn her body, tried to move closer, to press herself against him. She was beginning to feel frantic, she ached, she needed_._ Gods, she needed...more, him, _something._

His hand moved to her hip. Somehow it was under her tunic, his rough thumb brushing her skin just above her trousers. He clamped down, his sudden grip on her hip so hard that she cried out.

His hand opened immediately, the loss of support so sudden that she lost her balance on his lap and scrambled to latch onto the straps of his jerkin. As she held herself in place, his hand covered hers, and his head dropped to her shoulder.

"Gods. Sansa," he whispered, a hot thrill of sensation running down her body with his gravelly voice. She tried to shift, to find a more secure position across his spread legs. His arm clamped around her. "Don't. Move." He drew in a deep breath against her neck, and then loosened his hold on her. "Or move. Flee. While you can."

Secure now, she was free to move her arms, to wrap one around his tense shoulders, to stroke a hand down his hair. "I have no wish to run from you."

"It's a foolish creature who doesn't run from a hungry dog."

"You won't hurt me."

He raised his head to meet her eyes. "No, little bird, I won't-" he cast his gaze away from her. "I would try not to."

She cupped his face and brought his eyes back to hers, willing him to see. "You won't hurt me."

He closed his eyes, took her hand and turned his lips into her palm. "My lady."

Then he lay her down upon the blanket on the floor, lowering himself to lie beside her, leaning over her so that he filled her vision. He stroked the hair back from her face, his rough hands catching at the strands. His lips touched hers, and this time it was different. Light, slow brushes of his mouth that made her yearn for more, yet kept her content just to bask in this. Tender nips, the teasing dart of his tongue, turning to slow slashes of his lips against her and long pulls of his mouth that demanded nothing of her.

He pulled back and looked down on her, his eyes dark, fathomless, and full of some intensity she could not name. She reached out to touch his face, but he seized her hand and brought her knuckles to his mouth in a mockery of a courtly gesture that felt anything but proper. Sansa felt a blush rise to her cheeks, a blush at that after everything else.

His expression softened, his mouth taking a shape that was almost a smile, and Sansa's breath caught. Then he leaned over her once again, and pressed his lips to her forehead for a long moment.

"You should sleep now, my lady. No doubt your sister will be back soon."

He got to his feet, faster than a man his size should be able, faster than she could gather her wits to catch him, and left the enclosure without another word.

Sansa rolled to her side, pillowing her head on her bent arm and curling her body into a ball, as though she could trap the feeling in her heart and keep it safe.


	13. Chapter 13: No holocaust cloak

**A/N: I'd let the Man in Black plan my castle onslaught anyday, but let's see what I can manage on my own. Sorry to drag you away from SanSan, but they have some things to think about, and will have a moment alone tomorrow.**

_Jaime_

The leisure palace known as The Water Gardens rose up out of the desert sand like an oasis. The men that surrounded him were all dressed in the style of desert, as were he and Bronn, in loose pants and robe-like tunics. Beneath their tunics, both he and Bronn wore light armor, taking care that there was nothing that would make a sound. Heads and faces were wrapped in long swaths of the linen fabric. All their apparel was dark, as they hoped to be finished with this business before the sun rose.

Each hired man carried a gently curved sword in one hand, a dagger in the other. He didn't know how Bronn had found them, only that he'd been generous with Jaime's coin. As they reached the palace grounds, a few of them broke off, slipping ahead into the shadows. Those who listened could hear the soft sounds of men dying and being lowered gently to the ground.

Inside the palace, their soft-soled shoes whispered across the tiled floors. Jaime had called them women's shoes when he'd first seen them. It was strange to feel the shapes of the tiles beneath his feet. For no reason at all, his mind turned to Ned Stark, who would have stormed this palace in boots and jangling plate, rather than engage in the dishonor of sneaking in like a thief. But Stark had never appreciated subtlety, and now he was dead.

One of men indicated a door before melting away down the dark hall. Bronn knelt before it, tools in the lock, while Jaime stood at his side, alert for anything that might come from the dark or meet them on the other side of the door.

In moments there was a metallic thunk of tumblers disengaging, and the door swung open with only the slightest groan of its hinges. Jaime slipped into the cool dark. After a quick, visual inspection, Bronn jerked his head, indicating that he would wait outside and cover the door. Jaime gave him a curt nod.

He stole to Myrcella's beside. The princess had changed since the day she'd sailed for Dorne. But then, everything had changed since then. He thought that he had changed enough, that he would feel some swell of paternal feeling for the girl, but he didn't. Not really. She was his princess, just as she had always been, and it was his duty to see her safe, as it had always been. He dropped to one knee beside the bed and covered her mouth with his hand.

Immediately, her green eyes sprang open, wide and frightened.

"Shhh, it's only your Uncle Jaime. Do you know me?"

She blinked sleep and fear from her eyes, and the terrified look dissolved. She reached up and moved his hand. "Uncle, what is it? Why have you come?"

"It's no longer safe for you here, my princess. Your Queen mother sent me to fetch you home."

"Home?" Her face lit up, then fell, just as quickly, to confusion and doubt. "But I'm to marry Trystane."

"Perhaps. But you can be betrothed to him in King's Landing just as well as you can be betrothed to him here, can you not?"

"I suppose so. But I would know him better, before we wed."

"Then perhaps it is his turn to visit _your_ home."

"Is it because Prince Oberyn fought The Mountain and was killed?"

"You heard of that, did you?"

"Not all of it. But Prince Doran is in mourning for his brother."

"Of course. Prince Doran is, from all I've heard, an honorable man. But as his brother died while he was our guest, your mother feels others may seek to harm you in revenge. Do you understand?"

"I suppose."

"Then you'll come with me then?"

"Of course, Uncle."

"Good. Pack lightly. Leave all you can. And put on the darkest dress you have."

"What, now?"

"Yes, my princess."

"Must we sneak out in the middle of the night as though we are criminals? I am the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. My brother is King. I don't understand."

"Then perhaps you could just trust me. You trust your Uncle Jaime, don't you?"

She smiled at him, though she still looked uncertain. "Of course, Uncle."

Jaime stalked in the shadows impatiently as she threw objects into a bundle. He refused her requests to call a handmaiden or maid to help her dress. Though he was no stranger to ladies' garments, he had neither time nor patience for her lacings or sensibilities. He finally settled for wrapping her in a long, hooded cloak, helping her into the sturdiest boots he could find, and hustling her out the door.

The first clangs of steel upon steel reached them as they moved out into the hall. "Trouble," Bronn said unnecessarily, pushing them back into the room and sliding the bolt home. "The balcony."

"What about it?" Myrcella asked.

"We're exiting by it, Princess," Bronn told her. He crossed the room quickly, uncoiling the rope he'd worn at his shoulder. He fixed a knot around a column and tested its strength. "Can you do it?" he asked Jaime.

"Of course," he answered automatically, not really sure at all.

"You first then. Cover us at the bottom while I bring the girl."

Jaime nodded and climbed over the rail. He took the rope in his hand, wrapping it loosely around his wrist a few times. When his soft-soled foot slipped, his right arm shot out to get his balance and his golden hand clanged against the stone balustrade. Myrcella gasped. "Later," Jaime told her, and took his first short leap from the balcony. The rope swirled around his wrist, hot even through the leather. He grabbed it in his fist as his feet hit the wall. The rope slid hard, but he jerked to a stop. He adjusted the tension, repeating the movements. He ceased trying to stop his decent, but tried only to slow it, and found the rope didn't tighten so hard. By the time he'd reached the bottom, though, he felt like his hand and arm were on fire. He gave it a good shake, and then a low whistle drew his attention upward.

Myrcella's bundle was hurtling toward him, and he just managed to catch it. Above, he heard Bronn say, "Your Grace, my name is Bronn. And I do apologize for this." The princess squeaked as he hoisted her up and over his shoulder. "Hold on now, and I'll have you back to your uncle in just a moment."

Jaime held his breath as he watched Bronn's slow, hand over hand progress down the rope. Then a whisper of sound had him lashing out with his golden hand and catching a sword that would have cleaved his head from his was a fool not to have a sword in his hand already, but he drew it now. As he wrenched his attacker's sword from his hand, his own dealt a lethal strike. He whirled to find two more opponents, poised to engage him.

By the time he had taken out one, Bronn was there to slit the throat of the other. Myrcella clutched her bundle to her chest, looking very young again, and very pale.

"This way, my princess," Jaime whispered, gripping his sword and holding out his golden hand for her to take. She looked from his face to his hand, and shrank back slightly.

"Perhaps you would allow me the honor of escorting Her Grace, Ser Jaime?" Bronn said, his typical mocking swagger mixed with an air of let's hurry the fuck up and get out of here.

Jaime swallowed and nodded, picturing in his mind the way Cersei had looked at him, at his stump, at his preposterous and of steel. It shook it off. It didn't matter. Instead he pictured the map they had studied and chose a route into the gardens. Within the cover of the trees and plants, the sounds of the hired swords, clashing with the palace guards, were muffled. The splashing water of the fountains, more precious than gold in this land, were loud in the night, and drowned out the sounds of their shoes on the walkways.

Jaime had studied the maze, just in case. But though he had learned it, they soon came to a dead end. He cursed in frustration and herded them back.

"They change it often," Myrcella told them. "But I always figure it out. Shall I show you?"

"Please, Princess. The faster the better."


	14. Chapter 14: I once was blind

**A/N: So far, I've managed to post a chapter a day. Tomorrow's chapter is done (and long, and sexy), but these last two took me so long to get what I wanted that I've used up my buffer of finished work. I hope you won't be disappointed if updates come a little more slowly for a bit. My Hound is a difficult creature to write. **

**xxxxxx**

_Cersei_

"I'm so worried, Mother," Tommen said, drawing her hand into the crook of his elbow. Such a courtly gesture. So...grown up. "I have consulted with Maester Qyburn, as you suggested, and though he has given her medicines, her condition does not improve."

Tommen escorted her through his rooms and Cersei noted the changes, Margaery's mark upon his space. Her favored colors and poor taste, attempts at marking her territory.

"Does she suffer?" Cersei asked, her voice soft with motherly concern.

"She bears it all with a smile, for my sake, but I believe she suffers grievously."

Cersei rubbed her hand along his sleeve, and he pulled her a bit closer as they passed into the Queen's apartments and made their way to her chamber. "The poor, brave girl."

Margaery was sitting up in bed, propped up with elaborately embroidered pillows. Lions walking through fields of roses, lions carrying roses in their mouths, lions wearing wreaths and crowns of roses. _Oh for gods' sakes, we get the idea._ The Queen's hair was down, but her curls were still artfully arranged to cascade over her satin bed jacket. Her skin was pale, tinged with grey, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. Not at all the vibrant, vivacious young woman who had mocked Cersei so shamelessly.

Cersei left Tommen's side, reaching out to take the thin hand Margaery extended toward her. "My dearest girl."

"Mother. It is so very kind of you to visit."

"Tell me, sweet one, how is it with you?"

"A trifling illness, I am sure, as I have always been the very picture of good health. I am so very sorry to give so much trouble and worry to my dear family, and, of course, to my beloved King." She threw her smile at Tommen, who knelt beside her on the other the bed.

"Some nasty illness you picked up from the smallfolk you tend, no doubt," Cersei sniffed.

"Perhaps. If so, I can only pray the gods will watch over me as their faithful servant."

It was all Cersei could do to control her expression. She was reminded of Sansa, praying inside Maegor's Holdfast on the night of the Blackwater. How perfectly sweet the little dove had been. Just like this one. Only Sansa's sweetness was real, and this one's was a facade. Cersei wasn't sure which she detested more. "I pray that they do. Truly, my child, you look so tired. Perhaps my visit is ill-timed. I will take my leave of you and return when you are better."

"I confess I do tire so easily just now."

"Then you must rest and make yourself better so that you can return your Queenly duties."

Margaery sent Tommen such a look that he blushed to the roots of hair. "Nothing would please me more."

Cersei patted her hand. "Rest then, and be well."

Cersei rose, and, with a look, beckoned Tommen to escort her from the chambers. No sooner had they reached his apartments than he fell against her, weeping.

"Mother, I am so frightened for her. What shall I do if I lose her?"

Cersei cradled his head against her shoulder and stroked his golden hair. "There now, we must not think of such things. All will be well, I am sure." She waited quietly, until he had almost mastered himself, until he was almost ready to pull away from her again. "If the worst happens, remember that you are King. You must be a strong King."

He drew in a deep, shuddering breath against her neck. "How am I to be a strong King on my own?"

"Tommen," she cooed, "my dearest boy. You will never have to do anything on your own. Mother will always, always be here for you."

**xxxxxxx**

_Sandor_

He leaned over the rail, staring out at the sea and seeing nothing. All he could think about was Sansa in his arms, the taste of her. Night had passed to morning, morning into afternoon, while he'd done everything he could to avoid her. And still he felt drunk.

Or just bloody stupid.

He tried to remember, had she come to him, or had he just taken? But then he lost himself his memories until his blood pounded and the ship rail creaked in his grip.

_Just bloody stupid, then._ Why would she come to him? Princess of the North and the most beautiful thing he'd ever laid eyes on. She'd keep him close for the same reason everyone else did-better the demon you know to scare away ones you don't. He didn't think she'd tried to push him away, but gods, he was so drunk on the taste of her, would have noticed? Or maybe she'd been too afraid to try. The thought made him sick.

_Bloody Hells, I wish there was someone on this boat who needed killin'._ Then he wouldn't have to stand here, hiding between a stack of crates and the rise of the quarterdeck. He dreaded having to face her. And why? Why should fear and disgust be different on her face than anyone else's? She'd looked at him that way before, hadn't she? Before she learned her court mask.

But she was different. He hated it that she was. And he had to reestablish his distance.

Then, as though his thoughts had conjured her, she was there. He could feel her before he saw her, scent her like the dog he was. She didn't speak to him, but took a place leaning on the rail next to him, looking out at the sea.

"Why did you come to me the night of the Blackwater?" she asked, without turning her head.

He blew out an unsteady breath. "Why should we speak of that again? I am done with it." _Go away._

"I am not."

He glared at her, willing her to throw up her hands and walk away. She held his eyes calmly, until he forgot the question. Until his gaze dropped to her mouth. Remembering himself he snapped at her. "That's too bad for you."

She looked out at the sea, the breeze catching and lifting her hair, exposing the line of her pale throat. He knew the taste of it now. "The light is different in the North," she told him. "Maester Luwin says it's because the winds carry clouds, heavy with rain, from beyond the Wall. They blow southward, and loose their burdens on the realm, breaking against the Red Mountains before they get to Dorne. He says this is why our skies are always gray. There are days, of course, when the sun breaks through, but he told us it was a Winter sun. The cool, white sun of the North."

He wondered why she was telling him this. Fuck the clouds and the rain. Fuck the land they pissed on from the Wall to the Summer Sea. He didn't want hear about the weather patterns of the Seven Kingdoms or how her old maester liked to wax poetic. But he kept silent.

"I was dazzled when I came to the South," she went on. "The warm, yellow sun alone was enough to blind me. Everything at court seemed to glitter. All those things we'd never seen in our isolated North fascinated and delighted me, and made Winterfell seem dreary and poor. I loved my home, but I never longed for it. In truth, I wanted all my family to come to King's Landing, so that I would never have to leave it. This, I thought, was what my life should be. Elegant ladies, scents and fine fabrics, gleaming jewels. Walks in manicured gardens full of exotic flowers and exciting gossip. A thousand flavors I'd never tasted. I would wed Joffrey, and then I would truly belong to it. I would be a queen, and all of it would belong to me." She looked at him sidewise and threw him a self-deprecating smile. "A stupid, chirping little bird I was."

"You were a child," he offered gruffly. "Highborn ladies are raised to be children in women's bodies."

"I grew up."

"Aye." In every way there was, and gods help him, he was trying not to notice.

"I was so dazzled by everything at court that I couldn't see people for what they were. I thought Joffrey was the prince of my dreams, when he was a monster. I thought the Queen cared for me. I thought I was becoming such a proper Southern lady, when I was behaving like a foolish, spoiled child. My father told me he wanted to break my engagement to Joffrey, send me away to keep me safe, and the way I spoke to him..."

"Sansa." A tear was sliding down her cheek. He wanted to grab her and make her stop this, but he couldn't touch her. Why was she telling him this?

"And my septa. I treated her with such disrespect. Such disdain. When the guard came for me, I think she knew. She bade me to run back to my room and bar the door. And I did. I heard the fighting outside and I left her there and ran. The next time I saw her, it was her head on a spike near my father's."

"It was her duty to protect you."

"It was my duty to respect her. And my father." She fell silent as more tears fell, lost in her memories.

"The night of the Blackwater," he began, but his voice was more hoarse than usual. He swallowed. "As we prepared for Stannis' arrival. Do you remember when you bid farewell to your king? When he asked you to kiss his sword?"

"I remember."

"Everything he said to you was meant to keep you cowed. To remind you of your place and that you were at his mercy. Because the little prick never felt more powerful than when he hurt you or frightened you. And what did you do?" He chuckled. "You used your pretty words to shame him. You spoke of your brother's bravery and sought to goad him into fighting, knowing the idiot couldn't kill anything that wasn't tied up and at his mercy already. Your father would have been proud of you that night. Scared out of his mind at your audacity, aye, but you were cunning and sly, and every inch the wolf."

Color rose to Sansa's cheeks, and she turned her face to hide it, and the small smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"I turned craven that night." It was hard to get the words out, to admit his shame to her, even though she knew of it already. "A soldier rushed me/ He was on fire, screaming, stinking of burning flesh. Tyrion's man, Bronn, put an arrow in his head. I'd lost half my men by that time. They were dying all around me, and I was standing there, staring at that burning man, but I wasn't seeing him at all. That smell. That fucking smell was all I knew. I was child again, screaming as my brother held my face to the coals."

He shook himself, brought his thoughts back to the present. She was looking at him now, and he couldn't meet her eyes. He turned back to the rail.

"The beach was lost. The Blackwater was on fire. I called a retreat back inside the wall and we closed the gates on Stannis' army. It was just training and habit that took my feet back to where Joffrey and Tyrion stood with their guards, watching over the battle. The little fuck was furious. Ordered me back outside. Didn't care what I had to report, didn't seek counsel from the warriors around him, just ordered me to take my men onto the beach to burn and die. The half-man as well. Appealed to my vow, my loyalty, as though those things could mean anything to me just then. I said, 'Fuck the Kingsguard, fuck the city. Fuck the king.'"

Sansa gave an unladylike snort of laughter and covered her mouth quickly. "You did not."

He felt the strangeness of his own, answering smile."You should have seen the runt's face. I thought that, even if I lost my head for it, that it was the sweetest moment of my life and the loss of my head it would be well worth it. I made my way back inside the castle in search of enough wine to forget about all of it. To wait until the battle was decided, one way or another, and to see who came to kill me. I drank, and drank some more, thinking that I would drink as much of the fucking King's wine as I could before he had me slain. I thought about Joffrey, on those steps, looking down at me with this pretty face, his pretty, his gilded armor, clutching his pretty new sword. I thought about you, and how you had kissed it for him, and hadn't blinked when he threatened to make you kiss it again when it was covered in your brother's blood. Your blank face, your cunning words. I wondered how long you could keep your defiance hidden, and how long before he sought to tear out your feathers, tear off your wings, and keep you bloodied and broken in your cage. So I went to your rooms to fetch you and take you away. Back to your family, where he couldn't reach you."

She ducked under his arm. He tried to step back, but she put her arms around his waist, caging him there. He kept himself still and didn't touch her.

"You said one day I would be grateful, when I was Queen and you were all that stood between me and my beloved King. Do you remember?"

He sighed, not knowing what to do with his hands, and gripped the rail. "Aye, I remember."

"I was dazzled by the court. I was blind. You looked out for me, in every way you could, but I didn't see it. I didn't see you."

"Don't be foolish." He took her by the shoulders and tried to set her aside, but she pressed herself against him.

Her hands came up to touch his face, her fingers moving down his scarred flesh in a caress he could hardly feel. Her eyes were clear, pale blue, like her Northern skies. "I see you now."

Something cracked inside him, broke open. Even as his mind rejected her words, his arms jerked her hard against him, as though he could use her body to staunch the wound. He buried his face in her shoulder, shamed by the sound that tore from his chest as her arms clamped around his neck. He clawed at her back, fingers digging into her soft flesh. He wanted to open her up and crawl inside.

It was too much for him to bear. He needed her away from him. He tried to pull away.

**xxxxx**

_Sansa_

She tightened her arms around him. Her hands stroked down his hair, feeling the moment when he gave in and let her hold him.

_I won't hurt you._

_I'll keep you safe. _


	15. Chapter 15: Flirting with danger

_Sansa_

Sandor wouldn't stop looking at her.

And Sansa found she rather liked it.

Of course, he wouldn't speak to her either. He hadn't come within speaking distance most of the day. But wherever she went on the ship, she could feel his eyes on her. When she would turn to meet his gaze, his expression would turn stormy and he'd looked away.

She had been upset at first, fretting that she had gone too far, that she had been too bold when she'd joined him in his solitude the day before, when she had stepped into him and embraced him. The memory of her daring still shocked her, even as her memories in his arms made her weak and breathless. But over the course of the day, she realized it was only after he'd been caught that he became angry. Before-well, she wasn't sure about that. But she hoped...

What? She wasn't sure about that, either. He was crude and coarse, frightening, perpetually angry, and wholly unpredictable. Arya had said she was his hostage, but that he was good to her. Even after his hopes of a purse were dashed at the Eyrie, he'd kept Arya with him, and he treated her...the same way her older brothers treated her, she supposed, though with more coarse language. And, though Sansa hadn't realized it at the time, he'd looked after _her_ in King's Landing as best as his position would allow. She had never been so intrigued by, nor so drawn to, anyone in her life. Not even Ser Loras, handsome in both person and manner, and everything she'd dreamed a knight should be, not even he had made her feel the things she felt when Sandor looked at her.

She hoped that he would keep looking, that he wouldn't see the stupid girl she had been, and that he wouldn't find her lacking. Most of all, she hoped that he would come to trust her, knowing that his faith could not be easily won. She wanted to earn it.

"Will you take off your jerkin, Clegane?" she asked after Podrick left to return the supper tray to the galley. "I would change the dressing on your shoulder." It was a simple request, and hardly improper, especially with Arya present in the small enclosure, yet her heart pounded as she made it.

Sandor waved a hand dismissively. "It's fine."

"It won't take long, truly, and it's past time-"

"Seven Hells, woman!" he exploded. "I said it's fine."

Sansa jerked back reflexively. Sandor noticed. His shoulders twitched higher, and he ground his teeth. _It isn't fair. He acts as though I've insulted him. I would jump at a sudden thunderclap as well, though I know I am safe from it. _

"What's crawled up your arse?" Arya asked. She sat crosslegged on the blankets, most of her interest in polishing Needle, and the remainder of her attention no doubt focused only on needling Sandor. "Just want to let it turn again so you can lie about and nap all day? Have us taking care of you again?"

"Gods save me from your tender care, you little monster."

Arya snorted, sounding way too similar to the man she was arguing with. "Then let her clean it."

He let loose one of his wordless growls. "Very well, I submit to the wolf princesses, lest they nip and yap me into an early grave."

"That was a very ungallant thing to say," Sansa told him as she moved forward to help him unbuckle the straps, letting a smile play about her lips.

He looked as though he would say something, but he looked at her and swallowed it down. He batted her hands away. "I can do that. I've been dressing myself long enough." When she didn't stop, he scowled. "Leave off."

"I don't doubt the buckles are no match for you, Clegane, but it pleases me to help you." And it pleased her more that he was so surprised to be contradicted that he let her help him remove the armored garment and set it aside. He stiffened again when Arya snickered.

Standing behind the crate he was sitting on, Sansa placed a hand on his head and stroked down his hair, a hidden caress intended to soothe. Instead he shuddered at her touch, stiffened and jerked away. She yanked her hand back, instinct again, and silently berated herself for letting him startle her. She put her hand back, leaving it there unnecessarily, as she reached to pull closer the supplies she'd gathered.

"It looks much better," she told him. "Another few days, perhaps, and it will be better left to the open air."

He grunted.

"The strapping we used to hold the bandage is nearly worn through. We should replace it. If you'll just remove your tunic."

"Bloody Hells, I will not. If it must be done, I'll get the boy to do it."

"His name is Podrick," Sansa reminded him. "And I wouldn't ask him. He'd too afraid of you."

"As you should be."

Arya snorted again. "It's nothing we haven't seen before." She turned her head and speared him with a look. "What's with you, anyway? You've been acting queer."

"Bugger it." He spun towards the corner as he leaned forward and whipped the shirt over his head so quickly that Sansa was nearly struck by it. She picked it up when the threw it to the floor.

"Arya," Sansa held out the tunic, "would you take this up to Podrick, please. Ask him to wash it out?"

"Now wait a minute-"

But Sansa tossed the shirt to Arya, who caught it with a huge grin, and raced from the enclosure.

"Come back here, brat!"

"I'll give you a blanket to preserve your modesty when I'm finished," Sansa told him, trying to smother her laugh.

"Hmph. For all the good it will do me."

"Don't you trust me?"

"Not in the slightest."

It was just a game, but somehow hearing him say it lowered her spirits considerably. Time to go back to her task, then. "The old strapping needs cutting."

He pulled a dagger from one of his belts and handed it back to her. She took it, making sure her fingers brushed his. A thrill raced up her arm before he yanked his hand back. Sansa made quick work of cutting through the old material, then used the dagger on the skirt of her shift. After getting tangled in it when Littlefinger shoved her toward the cliff, and being powerless to stop herself from going over the edge, she didn't care to ever wear the thing again. She'd fashioned the top half of it into a new top for Arya, to replace the one torn by the shadowcat.

She folded one of the long strips of skirt into a pad and placed it against the healing wound. She couldn't not stare at his back, at the scars he bore, the play of muscle beneath his skin when he moved his shoulders, as though he could feel her gaze and shrug it off.

She started to wrap the strapping under his arm and around his torso. When they'd done it the first time, she and Arya had passed the bandage back and forth between them, with Brienne to help raise him off the ground. Now Sansa found it hard to reach all the way around him. She had to wrap her arms around him, and pressed her cheek against the back of his neck. He hissed at the contact, snatching the fabric from her hands and getting up from the crate so fast that she fell forward, and had to catch herself with both hands.

When she straightened and looked up at him, he was backed in the corner, glaring daggers at her. "Enough. You've had your fun for the evening, Lady Lannister."

Her mouth dropped open. He had never called her that. To call her a Lannister was the most grievous insult he could hurl at her. She wasn't sure what had happened, but instinct told her she couldn't let him storm out. She stepped up onto the crate, putting herself at his eye level and effectively trapping him, since he'd have to actually brush against her in order to leave and he seemed in no way willing to touch her. "Tell me."

"I don't know what game you're playing with me, but it ends."

Her heart stuttered at the menace in his voice. This was his way, yes, yet he seemed...different. More dangerous. But she had made up her mind to brave her way through his moods and outbursts, the way Arya did, so she steeled herself and tried to affect her mother's commanding voice. "I don't know what you're talking about, Sandor. Now give me that so I can finish my task and you can take your black mood somewhere else." She reached out for the wad of fabric he had still clutched in his fist.

He grabbed her wrist with his other hand, and she yelped at his bruising grip. "Is this what you learned after I left you at court? How to bend a man to your will? Did you shower your sweetness on the Imp until he fell at your feet? Did you take him into your bed and fuck him into your devoted slave?"

She tried to pull her arm away, put her other hand to his chest and pushed, feeling the pounding of his heart beneath her palm. He seized her other wrist and jerked her closer, pulling her balance from the crate. She hung between them, her boots on the crate, leaning forward on her arms he'd pinned to his chest, unable to push herself back away from him.

"Why are you saying these things to me?" she asked him, hating the sound of tears that crept into her voice.

He rubbed his scarred cheek against hers and whispered in her ear, "And it worked out well for you, didn't it, while it lasted? He might be a half-man, but the half's a Lannister with the power to protect you. From Tyrion to Littlefucker, another man who could take care of you. But you misjudged there, didn't you? And then there's me. Aye, I can keep you safe, kill any man who tries to touch you, cut any man who looks at you. That's what I'm good for. And it's so easy, isn't it, with grotesques like Tyrion and me? How little effort it takes to have us fall at your feet."

"Sandor-" she choked on a sob.

**xxxxx**

_Sandor_

He shoved her back, but she didn't catch her balance and fell back against his chest. She buried her face in his neck and wept. He hated her. For what she'd become. For her ability to turn him inside out and make him feel things that weren't for such as he to feel. For even now making him want to find a way to comfort her, when nothing about her was real. He'd given her his protection freely, and her attempts to bind him with her false attentions mocked him. He grabbed her wrists again, attempting to pry her from his skin. Her fists opened, flattened against him. His breaths heaved with his effort to control his temper, to keep himself from throwing her to the floor. He had to make himself cold, or he would end up killing her.

"Do you deny it, little bird? You can't, can you? You can't deny that you need me to see you to safety-you and your sister. You can't deny that you'd do anything to take care of her. Including offering yourself to a disgusting dog half the whores in King's Landing wouldn't lie with."

"Stop. Please." The sound tears in her voice tore at him. Worse this time because he'd caused them.

"Gods, fuck, stop yer weepin' already." He took the step forward so she could regain her balance. "I'll see you and the brat to Evenfall. I said I would. I...Don't play these games with me anymore, do you understand?" He released her hands.

He was going to step away, but she reached her hand inside her borrowed tunic, pulling it aside, and he forgot the movement. She turned the edge of the fabric to reveal a small, enameled pin. She worked the catch, freeing a frayed, stained scrap of fabric. She let the pin fall at her feet, and used the tattered handkerchief to mop her face.

"You told me I would need this again."

He seized her wrist, remembering the day he'd said her that. The day he'd wiped blood from her mouth and put this in her hand. "Why do you have this?"

"Do you know, it's the only thing I have from King's Landing. The only thing I kept. I could tell you it was because it helped sometimes, to think of you, to imagine I could have just some of your fierceness. Or to imagine that you were still there, watching over me, and that I wasn't so alone. But you wouldn't believe me, would you?" Her voice broke on the question. "You'd accuse me of some elaborate plot. That I carried this, all this time, on the chance that we would meet again and I could use it to trick you into fighting for me. Because that's all you think you're good for." She put the cloth to her mouth to muffle another sob.

"Sansa..." She was reaching out for him, wrapping an arm around his neck, pulling him against her, and he was so nonplussed, he just stood there and let her. "I don't understand, I-"

Her head settled against his shoulder, her face turned away from him. "Do you think I do? Do you think I understand why my heart breaks to hear you call yourself a dog, to hear you say your only worth to anyone is the way you swing a sword? Do you think I understand why that hurts me more than when you call me a Lannister whore?" she cried. "I don't."

His body jerked in denial, with the need to get away from her. He reached up to pull her arm away, and she threw the other around his neck as well. "Don't push me away," she whispered.

"I can't, I...can't." He couldn't breathe. He couldn't push down this colossal thing that raged inside him, that wanted to swallow her whole, to tear them both apart. "Turn me loose now, woman, or you'll pay the price for it."

"So be it."

It was almost a roar that erupted from his throat as he grabbed her and spun, shoving her hard against the wall of the ship, pinning her with his body. A sound escaped her, but he hardly noticed and he didn't care. Gods she was soft and small, and the beat of blood in his veins chanted for him to devour her. He caught his hand in the fabric at her throat and ripped downward. Creamy, pale, perfect skin from her throat to the flushed tops of her breasts above her corset.

He dove into her shoulder, mouth open, feasting on her scent and the taste of her skin. His hands tore at the corset lacings until he freed the knot and used both hands to yank the front of it apart. Her breasts spilled into his hands, light against his darkness, unbelievably soft as he squeezed, hard nipples rubbing against his open palms. He latched his mouth around one, sucking deeply as he thumbed the other. Her lower body bucked and squirmed against him, and the fingers in his hair dug hard into his scalp. He moved to the other side, this time unable to stop himself from experiencing that ripe softness with his teeth.

"Sandor!" His name tore from her in a ragged shriek as she bucked and pulled on his hair. It cut through the haze of his lust enough for her to drag his head back up to hers. She clutched at him, her forehead pressed to his, her eyes lowered, her face unreadable as she trembled and panted for breath.

_What am I...?_

"No!" she pleaded when he would have pulled away. She held him harder, reached out for one of the hands he'd braced against the wall and brought it back to her cheek. "Don't storm away again. Please. I just... It's so much, and I..."

"What?" he asked hoarsely, feeling the insanity begin to recede at the sound of her voice, at the soft touch of her hand as she cradled his against her face. He stroked his thumb across her skin, his other hand aching to touch her again.

"It's only, I would ask you..."

"By all the gods, Sansa, ask it already."

"If you could go a little more slowly, perhaps?" She sounded timid, but she leaned in and touched her lips to his.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Why are you?"

He laughed, a low, grating rasp of breath that didn't sound like a laugh at all. "I couldn't stop myself."

"And I didn't want to."

"I told you not to play games with me," he growled.

"You're determined to think so little of us. Of who you are and what I feel."

"What you feel," he scoffed.

"Truly I would rather you didn't talk at all." She took his mouth with hers again and he was lost to her softness, the taste of her, the slick glide of her tongue as it met his. Her hands slid down his chest, up his back to draw him closer. He drank the gasp that escaped her lips when her breasts were pressed against his chest.

He smoothed his hands down the sides of her body, over the ridges of her silken corset, around her back, pulling her closer still as he tasted his way down her throat again. He clutched her hard around the waist, his other palm pressing against her back in a long upward stroke until he found her skin again. Higher still, to sink his fingers into her hair. Where he had wanted to take all of her in and consume her, now he wanted to plunge into her and drown.

"Bloody Hells!" Arya shrieked. "What do you think you're doing?"


	16. Chapter 16: Explanations

**A/N: Fitting that I had named this chapter "Explanations." Unfortunately, I don't know how to respond to a guest review except by putting it here. There was a review on yesterday's chapter that referred to this relationship between SanSan as abusive and disrespectful. Yes, absolutely. The Hound, as I see him, is an abusive, disrespectful sonofabitch who uses his appearance and behavior to intimidate everyone around him, as self-protection against a world that has never shown him love, kindness, or respect. That doesn't disappear because a pretty girl strokes his hair and smiles at him a couple times. My Sansa is just starting to understand the demons that drive him, and she's glimpsed the man who hides beneath his demeanor. She's beginning to understand that this is an issue of trust, and, to her, it's worth taking the hurts to save him. It's worth my time and emotion to try to write it. It honestly does not sound like this is your view of SanSan or your kind of story. There are many other SanSan fics on the site that take a different, softer view of the Hound, and I'm sure you can find something that suits you better. I particularly enjoyed "Cut It Out And Then Restart" 8284316. I appreciate that you took the time to read this far.**

_Sansa_

"Bloody Hells!" Arya shrieked. "What do you think you're doing?"

Sandor groaned against Sansa's neck. "Fuck." His voice rumbled through her body.

"M-my lady?" Podrick's voice was a broken squeak.

"Doubly fucked," Sandor growled into her hair, where only she could hear. "Don't make the lad challenge me, little bird. I almost don't hate him, and I don't really want to maim the boy."

Sansa's skin was on fire, red with mortification, but still flushed with want. She felt overwhelmed, somehow innervated and wrung out all at once. She wanted them to go away. Even the part of her that was frightened wanted to find out where Sandor's nature would take them, and where hers would let him.

"D-d'you need assistance, my lady?"

"Answer the boy..."

She peeked over Sandor's shoulder. The pair of them bore expressions of shock, horror, and disgust, but Podrick's, especially, was mixed with concern and determination. She would tempt Sandor's temper, but she couldn't trust it to Podrick.

"I'm quite well, thank you." She swallowed hard and reached for her mother's voice. "If you would take my sister on deck for a few-"

"Bugger that!" Arya snapped.

Sansa ground her teeth. "It seems we must have some family discussion. Pray excuse us, Podrick."

He flexed his fingers, looking like he wanted to argue, but he gave her a curt nod and spun on his heel. Sansa sighed in relief.

"Nicely done, _my lady,_" Sandor taunted.

"Put me down," she hissed. When he did she set about stuffing herself back into her corset. When she glanced up, she saw his eyes, huge and dark, and fixed on her. The look made her shiver. One side of the lacing had broken short, and her fingers felt numb. When he tried to help she slapped his hands away. "You should go," she whispered, and managed to secure the garment, for the most part. She pulled the halves of her borrowed shirt together. He'd taken a step back from her, and she already felt the loss of his heat.

When she looked up, his face was a hard mask again. He was so quick to take hurt from anything she did, and turn himself to anger. She stepped into him again, raising her hand to his face. "I would speak with my sister alone. Unless you think she means to challenge me," she added, tilting her head with a smile. "Would you be my champion?"

Arya cleared her throat, loudly. "I'm still here, you know."

His face softened into that look that was almost a smile. "Take on that Hells-spawn wolf cub? Not bloody likely." He took her mouth in a last, searing kiss, turned and walked away while she was still standing there, with her fingertips to her lips.

"Bloody Hells! What-?" Ayra sputtered when Sandor's absence exposed her sister's torn clothing. At a loss for words, she gave up, throwing up her hands. "What?"

Sansa took her time, picking up a blanket from the floor, shaking it out and draping it around her shoulders. She sat on the crate with as much dignity as she could manage. How was she going to explain this? What did Arya even know about men and women?

Arya advanced on her with a hard look. "I know things are different at court, but you cannot play with him."

"Arya-"

"I don't care. I don't care what you were thinking, I don't care what your reasons were, it stops now, do you hear me?"

Sansa's blood rose with her suspicion. She was not having this again, and not from her little sister. "What reasons could you be thinking of?" she asked slowly, a dangerous edge in her voice.

"The Hound is worth a thousand of your precious Joffrey, of your pretty, prancing Knight of Flowers. You'll not use him for what you can get off him and then kick him aside when you're done with him."

"How dare you?" Sansa's hand flew up, but she stayed it. Barely. She drew the edge of her shirt together again. "It's good to know what you think of me. Is it so impossible to believe that I could see what you see? That I might agree with you? That I might love him?"

Arya blinked at her, falling back a step. "You love him. The Hound."

She blushed to the roots of her hair, and suddenly felt the need to sit down again. "I didn't say that." Her voice was very weak. "I said is it so very hard to imagine."

"Oh aye, it's hard to imagine all right." Arya erupted into a fit of hysterical laughter. "Fuck me!"

"Ayra!"

"You _love_ him! The ugliest man in Seven Kingdoms!"

"He's not!"

That only made her laugh harder, until she plopped down on the floor so she could clutch her belly and roll with it.

"Are you completely mad?" Sansa snapped.

"Are _you_? Married to the Imp, and going to cuckold him with The _Hound?_"

_"...grotesques like Tyrion and me..."_ "Stop it!" Sansa got to her feet. "Stop it, do you hear me? You're not to talk about either of them like that. I'm ashamed of you!"

"Of me? That mark on your shoulder is already bruising, the one that's shaped like his mouth."

Sansa gasped and clapped her hand on her shoulder, making Arya giggle some more. "Where did you learn about things like that?"

"I've been living in the world. In Flea Bottom, in the countryside. I've got eyes and ears, don't I?" Arya swung her knees around in front of her, wrapped her arms around them. "You're not using him?"

"No."

"You...care about him?"

"I do," she answered earnestly.

Arya was quiet for a moment, as though she had to sort through it all, and what it meant. "Does he know that?"

"He...it's complicated."

"What does that mean?" her sister asked quickly, looking suspicious once more.

"It means it's complicated. _He's_ complicated. He doesn't trust me."

"He doesn't trust anybody."

"He should trust me," she pouted.

"Why?" When Sansa glanced up, Arya's look was challenging. "No, really, why? Look at it from his perspective. No one ever sees past his scars. Why should they? He's a complete arse to anyone who tries to speak to him. So no one tries, unless they want something from him. The Lannisters used him and treated him like shit."

"Arya, your language."

"Did they or did they not treat him like shit?"

"Yes, they did."

"Why should you be any different?"

"Because I _am_ different!"

"Because you _love_ him," Arya grinned.

"I hate you."

"That's too bad. Because I was just starting to think you weren't completely stupid after all."

**xxxxxx**

_Jaime_

The water lapped against the sides of the ship. Three days they had spent at sea, three days of his charm wearing thin, trying to keep her amused with petty small talk.

"Do you want to know what happened to it?" Jaime was sick of catching her staring at the thing, having her eyes dart away when she was caught.

"Only if you wish to tell me, Uncle," the princess replied, polite and correct as always.

"It was after my imprisonment with the Northern army. While the Stark Pretender was away from camp, his lady mother arranged for my release, thinking to trade me for her girls who were hostage at King's Landing."

"Sansa! Did she go back to her family then?"

"One story at a time, my princess. You've been away a long while. Which will you have, updates on all your favorite ladies, or the story of my missing hand?"

"Your pardon, Uncle. Pray continue." She had a meek courtesy, and a sweetness about her that was nothing like Cersei. Perhaps she had been sent to Dorne just time.

"The Pretender wasn't interested in trading so important a hostage as the Queen's brother for a few young girls, nevermind that they were his sisters."

"I'm sure he knew they were well looked after in King's Landing, and Sansa had no wish to leave. She wanted to marry Joffrey."

"Whose side are you on?"

Myrcella blushed prettily, even though she knew he was teasing her.

"As I was saying, the Pretender did not approve the notion, and so, when he was away from the camp, his lady mother came to me with her sworn shield and made a deal with me. Her shield would smuggle me out of the camp. We were to travel in secret to King's Landing, where I would negotiate for the return of the Stark girls."

"But you didn't even know where Arya was, did you? Was she found?"

It was on his tongue to say that he had every intention of looking scouring the countryside for the younger Stark in fulfillment of his oath, but the gallant lie stuck in his mouth. He frowned. "No, not yet. But I didn't know for a certain that she hadn't either. I'd been imprisoned for the better part of a year, remember. So I swore on the bargain with Lady Catelyn, and her shield and I left the Wolf's camp that very night.

"We kept to the forest. She was smart and stayed off the roads where those loyal to our family might have seen us and tried to overpower her."

"Overpower Lady Catelyn?"

"No, her shield. Lady Brienne. Of House Tarth."

Myrcella's green eyes widened. "Lady Catelyn's sworn shield was a woman? I don't understand. Was she...she wasn't a knight?"

"Yes and no. She was sworn to your uncle, the Pretender Renly. He knighted her and made her a member of his so-called Kingsguard." Jaime went on to mention that this was after Brienne has bested all his other knights in a tourney, including the Knight of Flowers, and watched Myrcella's eyes grow bigger by the second. He told her, making quite a joke about it, of Brienne leading him around by a rope, like a dog on a lead, with him needling her every moment of the journey.

"And then we came to a bridge. And here was a dilemma for the Lady knight. Were we to cross the bridge, out in the open, or take our chances in the water. She was weighed down with heavy plate and two longswords, I was bound and there was a length of rope between us. She saw the danger in trying to drag an unwilling prisoner through the water.

"But why were you unwilling if she was returning you to King's Landing?"

"Because she was to trade me for the Stark girls, and they were valuable prisoners."

"But you were already bound by your oath to their mother to return them. The condition of your release."

The innocent confusion of her expression made him as uncomfortable as the knowing censure of Brienne's. "Of course. There is that. It's...a complicated thing, this businesses of hostages."

"That's why you had to come for me as you did." She shook her blonde curls, which had been lightened by the desert sun of Dorne. For just an instant, he imagined her with blue eyes instead of green. As someone else's daughter. "Uncle," her voice cut into his insanity, "what did she choose, the bridge or the water?"

"She chose the bridge. It was the only thing, really. We would have made it across and disappeared into the forest on the other side, but for my continued efforts to slow us down and make things difficult for her. And then came the moment when I stole her sword."

Myrcella gasped prettily. "You didn't kill her?"

"No, of course not. I was only going to play with her a bit. She was so...haughty. So..._serious, _all the time! I was going to take her down a peg before I was on my way, that was all."

"But..."

"But this lady knight was quite the swordswoman, as it turned out."

"She bested you?! Did she take your hand?"

"Of course not!" he snapped at the notion of Brienne maiming him. He softened at Myrcella's startled look, found his charm again. "She had her vow. She could not kill me. I'd had months of imprisonment without a sword, with little food, and my hands were bound. But still, I'm Jaime Lannister, aren't I? I should have made quick work of the thing. But I tell you, Princess..." He proceeded to draw out his recollection of the swordplay on the bridge to a tale of epic proportions that had the girl gasping and on the edge of her seat. "And that's when they found us."

"Who?"

He told her of Locke and his men taking them prisoner. He tried to keep the story light with his insulting descriptions of the band of cutthroats. When he reached the part of the story where they stopped for the night, Myrcella suddenly asked, "Did they mean to ravish her?"

Jaime started in his chair. "Where did you learn such words?"

"I have books, Uncle, and I can read, you know," she told him, with all the sneering grace of a young, Lannister princess.

"We shall have to speak with House Martell about the quality of their library."

"But Lady Brienne, was she-?"

"No, no. You see, I convinced their leader that Brienne's father would pay him a fortune in sapphires if his daughter's life and honor were preserved."

"Where would the lord of Tarth get a fortune in sapphires?"

"Where indeed? But Locke wasn't schooled so well as you, Princess, and he fell for the lie. Unfortunately, it seemed that the promise of a fortune in sapphires made it worth risking a fortune in gold, for it wasn't long before he decided to take my hand."

"Why did he do it?"

"To humble me, I think."

Myrcella laughed, light and genuine. "As if that could be done." Jaime found himself warmed by her little jest at his expense, her successful attempt at lightening the horror of what had happened. Then she placed her hand on his golden one. The first time she had touched it, the first time she had really looked at it without shying away. Her fingertips traced the swirling patterns on its surface. "Does it hurt?"

Something hurt, in his chest. "No, my princess, it doesn't hurt. The thing is ridiculously heavy, though," he told her, trying to find his normal, jesting tone. He turned his hand under hers, letting the steel knuckles fall heavily on the table. "Even so, sometimes I feel like my true hand is still there." Like right now, when he thought he could bend those gold-plated fingers around the smaller ones that rested on his palm.

"You are very brave, Uncle, to have borne the loss, learned to fight again, and come for me as you did."

He looked away, what felt, impossibly, like a blush rising up the back of his neck. He would have sworn there were stars in her eyes.

He felt her tug on the hand she still held. "You must tell the rest. How did you escape those horrible men, and what became of Lady Brienne?'

He told her the short version, of Bolton's shabby hospitality and duplicitous nature. He skipped the bit about the bear pit, and simply told her that Bolton charged his men with seeing the both of them back to King's Landing. The story, as in real life, was anti-climactic.

"Do you think I should meet her, when we return to King's Landing? The Lady Brienne, I mean. She sounds like such a fascinating woman."

"She is...singular. She left King's Landing, though, just before I did." Jaime had to force himself not to be distracted by the memory of that parting. "But I do hope you'll meet her someday. Someday soon."


	17. Chapter 17: Questions of allegiance

_Brienne_

A shuffling step in the corridor woke Brienne from her drowse, had her rising from her pallet and moving further into the shadows of her cell. She had not slept deeply since she came here. Even those hours when the exhaustion dragged her down into some kind of slumber, she was ever on her guard. With their lord away, there had already been three occasions when his men had unlocked her cell to toy with her. Though she fought them back, they beat her until it was all too easy for them to put hands and mouths to her flesh, toss her about between them like a whore in a tavern. They did not go too far, as she was still to be a prize saved for Locke, but they would have their fun at her expense, and she would not make it easy.

She heard the clink of metal before she saw the maester's long, grey robe, wound with his many-metal chain. He was an older man, as most of the maesters who served the noble houses were, his steel grey hair trimmed short, and thinning at the top. He had the hunched look of someone who spent a lot of time crouched over a book. When Brienne cautiously approached the bars of her cell, she dwarfed him.

"I have news, Lady Brienne."

"What news is that, Maester?"

"Word just came by Raven, of the fate of Locke in the North."

Brienne's blood ran cold. "Will you tell me, or did you come just to tease me with it?" It was only after she'd said it that she realized how rude it was. But she didn't take it back.

"Peace, child. I mean you no harm. I came to tell you Locke is dead. Tales of what goes on in the region of Castle Black are complicated. Suffice it to say that Locke's mission ran him afoul of a group of Night's Watch renegades."

"I see," she said, though she didn't.

"This is not joyous news for you, I fear. For though you are held here to await our lord's man, Lord Bolton will have no intention of letting you go, I'm afraid."

"I should think not."

"And Locke, while he was alive, was your protection. Now that he is dead..."

Brienne took his meaning perfectly. As soon as Bolton knew that Locke was dead, he would give her to someone else, or, more likely, to all of them. "I understand, Maester."

"I have no reason to share this information with anyone but Lord Bolton himself, nor any reason to think the matter worthy of bringing it to his attention before his return."

"And thus you postpone my punishment. Not that I'm not grateful, but why would you do this?"

"There's no honor in this, my lady, nor in any of Lord Bolton's actions over these last months. I still value honor, though not so highly as my life. I am not so brave that I would speak against my lord, but this small stay I can offer you."

"May the gods be generous to you, Maester, as you are generous with me."

"A pretty sentiment. Prettier than I deserve. I wish I were a braver man."

"Would it...would it be a risk to you to get word to my lord father, tell him what has become of me? Lord Bolton refused his ransom once before, I do not supposed he would accept it now, but if I am not to see my father again, I would have him know it, and not be left waiting on word from me."

"It has already been done, my lady. I've brought you some food and an extra blanket, to help make you more comfortable." He unburdened the basket he carried and passed the things through the bars. "Is there anything else I can so for you?"

"Perhaps...I would write a few letters, if I could. To my father and to...someone else. If you could see them delivered after-when the time comes."

The maester looked sad and uncomfortable, but he placed a gentle hand over hers where it wrapped the bars. "I will come again soon, and bring you ink and parchment."

"I thank you for your kindness."

**xxxxx**

_Arya_

The cart that carried supplies from the ship to Evenfall Hall was as bouncy as it was slow. Arya could have walked alongside it with Pod and the Hound, but when the Hound had told her she was to ride on the back of the cart with her sister, the look he gave her told her it would be useless to argue. She was wearing a cloak, with the hook pulled low over her face. Any time she tried to peek around at her surroundings, he gave her a scowl. He'd been silent and scowling morning. Not that that was so unusual. It was Podrick scowling back that made it worse.

Beside her, Sansa clutched the side of the cart and tried to keep herself upright. She and the Hound took turns looking at each other, and then looking away. One of their Winterfell maids and Theon had been like that, before the King's visit. Before everything changed. Back then she would have said, 'You either like her or you don't. Figure it out, tell her, and have done.' But now she thought maybe figuring it out wasn't so easy, so she'd left off pricking her sister with it.

But still she wondered. At her sister's torn blouse and loose corset. At the way the Hound's eyes shot away whenever Sansa looked at him. At the fact the closest Sansa could get to pinning down her feelings was "I care about him." If she didn't love him, why was she kissing him? The Hound didn't have to love Sansa to want to tear her clothes off. Arya knew that, she wasn't a child. But he wouldn't have done that, wouldn't have put those marks on her, if Sansa didn't want him to. He wouldn't do that.

_Would he?_

Once inside the Hall's outer gate, The Hound lifted them both to the ground. Neither she nor Podrick missed how his hands lingered on Sansa, and Podrick's hands clenched at his sides. Arya wondered if that was leftover loyalty to Lord Tyrion, or Podrick's own jealousy.

They stayed cloaked as they approached the inner gate, and the Hound demanded to see Lord Selwyn. The guard looked dubious, but, like many, was intimidated enough by the Hound's name and arrogance to send word inside.

Lord Selwyn looked a lot like Brienne. He was tall, with short, curling, light blond hair, blue eyes, and that same earnest expression. "I am Selwyn, Lord of Evenfall and House Tarth. I have seen you at court, Sandor Clegane, though we did not meet."

Sandor nodded in acknowledgment. She and Sansa stood behind him, and when the older man leaned a little to the side to see and address them, the Hound moved to block his view.

_He's so rude_. Arya was mentally shaking her head. _Even by my standards._

"Will you not introduce your companions?"

"First I would know your allegiance in this war."

"Are we still at war, then? The matter has been decided, to hear the Lannisters tell it." When the Hound said nothing, Lord Selwyn shrugged. "Very well. I pledged my support to Lord Renly, what little I could give him. I supposed you know that. Not because I thought he had the right, mind you, but because my daughter asked me to, and he was a better choice than Stannis. Since his assassination, Tarth has managed to stay well out of it. We're not important enough for anyone to press the issue. Until now," he added, with a questioning brow. "And you, Clegane? Have the Lannisters sent their Hound to my door, or is there truth to the rumors you've forsaken your oath to them?"

"Fuck the Lannisters," the Hound growled.

"Well, there it is then." Lord Selwyn smiled a little, as though he wanted to be amused, despite being wary. Arya thought it seemed he had no great love for the Lannisters. "And your current allegiance?"

"My lord," Podrick spoke up, "if I may, my name is Podrick Payne."

Lord Selwyn turned to him, looked him up and down. "A relation of the King's Justice?"

"A distant cousin, my lord. Very, very distant. More importantly, it is my honor to serve as squire to your daughter."

The lord fell back a step in surprise, but before he could form a question, Podrick went on, "

The task set before my lady was to find and protect Sansa and Arya Stark, in fulfillment of her vow to their mother, Lady Catelyn. My allegiance is to Lady Brienne, and therefore also extends to the Starks, in honor of my lady's mission. Clegane's allegiance is to the daughters of House Stark alone."

"Prettily done, boy, but I didn't ask you to speak for me," the Hound growled.

The old lord still seemed shaken by the mention of his daughter. He turned back to the Hound. "You are their sworn shield, then?"

"I am," he replied, with a barely perceptible straightening of his spine. Beside her, she could practically feel Sansa's surprise. Apparently he hadn't actually sworn anything to her, either.

"And do I have the honor of addressing the daughters of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell?"

_Yes, please, can this be done already?_

"You do if you can keep your mouth shut," the Hound snapped at him. "And if you can't, I'll take your tongue and shut it for you, and maybe some other parts as well."

"Clegane!" Sansa cried, half scold, half gasp. Arya gave a mental shrug. The Hound was rude. What was surprising in that? But Sansa was brushing past him, taking down her hood and extending her hand to Lord Selwyn. "Forgive him, my lord. He is...zealous in seeing to our safety." She turned her head and glared at him while she said it. "I am Sansa Stark."

Sansa made him a deep curtsy. It was perfect, of course, back straight, smoothly down, a perfect pause, smoothly up again. He was bowing over her hand. "Lady Sansa, I cannot begin to offer condolences for your many losses."

"It is my honor to meet you, Lord Selwyn, and it grieves me to tell you that your daughter was lost to us two weeks ago, as we fled Moat Cailin and the lands of the Boltons, traitors to my brother and the North, who would have us to strengthen their hold on it. I do not know her fate. This," she turned and beckoned Arya forward, "is my sister, Arya Stark."

Arya removed her hood as she took her place beside her sister. If Lord Selwyn thought anything about her short, raggedy hair, it didn't show in his face. Arya felt awkward, uncertain of what was expected of her, and attempted to bob a quick curtsy. The Lord of Tarth gave her a kind smile and a nod before turning his attention back to Sansa.

"I have no doubt," she was saying, "that it was due to your daughter's bravery and valor that we were delivered safely from that place. We are greatly in your debt."

Lord Selwyn looked a bit overcome by her words. He pressed his lips together and merely nodded in acknowledgment.

"These faithful men spirited us out of that country, and we came to you by ship. Though we have no right to ask such generosity, Lord Selwyn, we humbly beg asylum in your lands from the Lannisters and their allies, who would have us back under their control. Their reach is far, and through many hands." She sank into that low curtsy again. Arya felt the Hound tense and twitch behind them.

It seemed like a long moment that Sansa remained like that, her head bent, not quite on her knees. She was poised and graceful, her words eloquent and diplomatic, her red hair slipping from the cloak and falling over her shoulder. So like Mother, and yet not like Mother at all. Arya shuffled nervously, wondering if she was meant to do something or say something.

Lord Selwyn was visibly moved. He reached down for Sansa's hand and raised her to her feet. "My lady, it would honor me to take my daughter's vow as my own. Tarth will shelter you for as long as needs be."


	18. Chapter 18: My buddy and me

**A/N: I was so caught up writing Sunda****y'****s chapter ;) that I almost forgot to post today****'****s. **

_Sansa_

Her bath had been heavenly, and a real mirror-for the first time in two weeks-showed her that the dye she'd used at the Eyrie had finally gone completely from her hair. It also showed her the bloom of Sandor's love bite on her shoulder.

Or so one of the ladies at court had called it, as they all giggled and listened to her recount a tale of a passionate embrace with a young knight. It seemed an odd, now, to call it that, when Sandor hadn't bitten her. And as for love...

_You need trust for love. Mother told me that once. That she had been still in love with my uncle's memory when she wed my father. How first there was duty, then friendship, then trust, and that was how love came to them._

But there was something there between Sandor and her. There had always been something there, something when he looked at her, when he spoke to her...

She shook off her thoughts and rose to dress. She only had the one gown, the traveling gown she had made while at the Eyrie, but though it was a little worse for wear, it was, at least, fairly clean, having been little worn since the incident with Littlefinger. She slipped it on, only a little discomfited by not having all the proper undergarments for it as she tied the front lacings herself. She was a fugitive. She could hardly be expected to be glamorous. She picked up her handkerchief and fixed it to the inside of the garment with the little pin, taking care that nothing showed on the outside. It had been her secret comfort for so long, and she blushed to think that it was her secret alone no longer.

"Aren't you ready yet?" Arya asked, beating an impatient rhythm on the floor with the heels of her boots.

"I haven't done anything with my hair yet."

Arya sighed and stalked over to her. When she grabbed up a fistful of hair in her hand, Sansa was half afraid she meant to cut it off. Instead, she picked up the brush and attacked the strands. Short, quick strokes, working up from the bottom, the way Mother had taught them. Neither of them spoke. When Sansa's hair gleamed and the brush moved freely top to bottom, Arya set it on the vanity and resumed her seat without a word. Sansa pulled up a strand of hair from each side of her face and joined it with a third strand at the back of her head in the simple style she favored. After weeks of travel, and the thick braid hanging down the center of her back, it seemed a luxury to have it down, whispering across her shoulders. It was on her lips to say thank you, as courtesy dictated, but there was something about the set of her sister's shoulders that told her Arya didn't want it acknowledged. She stayed her tongue.

Once again, Arya reminded her of Sandor.

"He was good to you, wasn't he, when it was just the two of you together?" There were a million questions she wanted to ask about the time she and Arya had been apart, and she'd been afraid to begin. Didn't know how to start.

Arya gave her an arch look in the mirror. "Depends on your definition of good, I suppose. Maybe not, by your standards. He caught me running away from the Brotherhood Without Banners. He captured me for ransom. He bullied me, swore at me, and hauled me around like sack of grain. He took me to the Red Wedding."

Sansa gasped, spinning on her seat, her braid forgotten. Arya's eyes were bleak, her face hollow with memory. "We rode in on a stolen cart with food and drink for the party. Maybe Mother and Robb were still alive, I don't know. The guard at the gate wouldn't let us in. Told us the feast was over. I knew something was wrong, so I snuck off the cart while the Hound was still arguing with the guard. I made my way inside and found a place to hide, tried to pick out someone I knew who could get me inside to Mother. I saw men from Winterfell eating, and I was just about go and ask them for help when one of the Frey men came outside. 'The feast over yet, is it?' one of them asked. 'Aye, it's over,' the man said. And quick as that he drew a dagger from his belt and slashed the throat of the man from Winterfell."

There was something eerie about the way she spoke, disturbing not just because of the horror she was describing, but because of the complete lack of emotion with which she told the story. Because the only time her voice varied in its flatness was when she spoke as dead men and killers. Sansa's fingers found her lips, and she felt the slide of tears down her face, but Arya's expression never changed.

"More of Frey's men were on them. They were drunk and surprised, and slaughtered like Frey men moved on, and I thought to run, maybe. Then I heard a howl. Grey Wind was whining and throwing himself at the doors of his pen. I made my way closer, trying to stay hidden. I saw him, standing on his hind legs, his muzzle at the barred windows at the top. And before I could get up to let him out, four crossbow men came from the keep and took aim at him through the bars. Four of them. He shrieked once, and then he was silent. When they were gone, I watched the life leave his eyes.

"I ran for the doors, desperate to get to Mother. I still thought I could warn her. The Hound grabbed me, told me it was too late, but I broke away from him. I was determined to go anyway. To die with them. He knocked me out.

"When I came to we were on a horse. There was smoke and fire all around us. Men fighting and dying. And there was a chanting, 'The King in the North! The King in the North!' For just a moment, I thought we had won. But when I looked up, I saw Grey Wind's head. They'd put a headless man on a horse and fixed Grey Wind's head... And I knew... I knew that it was-"

"Don't say it," Sansa muttered through her tears, unable to believe that Arya had witnessed something so awful.

"The Hound turned the horse and just...rode away. I don't remember anything after that. When I woke up the next day, we were riding. We came up on some men in the forest, bragging to each other about what they'd done at the feast. Making fun of the sounds Mother made as she died. One of them saying he was the one to fix Grey Wind's head... I jumped from Stranger's back. I thought at the time I was getting away with it, but I think The Hound _let_ me go. He stayed and watched when I went up to the men and asked to share their fire. Then I distracted the bragging man with dropped coin and I stabbed him with a dagger I'd taken from The Hound's belt. I stabbed him. Over and over and over.

"I didn't even notice when the other men came for me, but the Hound was suddenly there between us, cleaving them aside with his greatsword. When he was finished, he took back his knife, told me to warn him next time, and set about eating their dinner."

"That's what he did, after you'd killed a man?" Sansa asked, horrified.

"He wasn't the first person I had killed by then," Arya answered flatly. "He wasn't the last person I killed, either. When I wanted to get revenge on a man named Polliver who had held me captive and tortured and killed my friend, the Hound said it was too dangerous to take on so many men. But when I slipped away from him and went anyway, he followed. They talked about traveling with The Mountain, terrorizing and torturing the smallfolk. They invited him to join them, said their was profit in it. They wanted to put hands on me. The Hound fought all of them. Killed all of them, except for Polliver. I slid Needle into his throat.

"After that, The Hound made sure I knew where the heart is." Arya cocked her head to one side, the first hint of expression on her face as her eyes narrowed in challenge. "Is this what you want to hear?"

"Absolutely none of it is what I want to hear. Go on."

"He said he was taking me to the Vale, to Aunt Lysa. She would care for me, he said, and she had enough money to pay him. It seemed like we traveled forever. Sometimes we went hungry. Lots of times, maybe. We couldn't show our faces hardly anywhere, because there was money in it for people if they turned us over to the Lannisters. Because if someone else took me, he wouldn't get paid. We argued a lot.

"Finally we made it to the Vale, walked up to the Eyrie and he told the guard who I was, and that he'd brought me to my Aunt Lysa. The guard told us she was dead. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard in my life."

"Laughed? At Aunt Lysa's death? I assure you, it wasn't funny."

"It wasn't funny," Arya agreed. "I just couldn't stop laughing. The Hound took me away from there. I kept wondering what would happen next. He'd said that Lysa was the last one who would pay for me. I thought he might leave me, and I thought it didn't really matter. I was going to make my way to Braavos and become a Faceless Man.

"Stranger and the horse I'd stolen were gone when we went back to them, and what few possession we'd had along with them. Later we learned there were a lot of horses gone missing in the area. The Hound was beside himself, said that he was done with this fucking country and we were going to make our way south, get some money, buy passage across the Narrow Sea. He could make a good living as a sellsword, he figured, what the fuck else had he been doing all these years? And I could do whatever the fuck I wanted. It sounded good to me."

Sansa knew she was only quoting Sandor, but the words rolled so easily off her tongue.

"It was the next morning when Brienne and Podrick found us. I was practicing with my sword. I talked to her, asked her if she was a knight. She wasn't. I asked did she know how to use her sword. She said she did. When the Hound came, and Podrick recognized him, she knew who I was. She told me about her promise to our mother. I wasn't sure if I believed her, but the Hound didn't trust her. Told her she couldn't take me. Told her he was looking out for me. She didn't believe him. She looked at him like Polliver had in the tavern, thinking he was keeping me around for something filthy, though at least she didn't say it.

"She challenged him. Or he challenged her. I don't know. He could have just let me go with her. Everyone was dead, and I wasn't worth anything to him anymore. He'd taken that wound at his shoulder, wouldn't let me burn it out, and it had festered. He was hurt, sick, exhausted, and half-starved, and he fought her anyway. I was watching them, and I was thinking that no one had fought for me since Syrio fought Ser Meryn so I could escape the Red Keep."

_Another piece of the puzzle._ Sansa wanted to ask more about that, but just then Arya fixed her with a look.

"It wasn't until later that I realized the Hound had been fighting for me for a long time." Father's eyes looked out at her from her sister's face. "Does that answer your question?"

Sansa moved to sit beside her on the bed. She reached out tentatively, the way you do with an animal you're unsure of, and finally laid her hand on her sister's hair. When she was sure she could, she pulled her close. To her surprise, Arya's thin arms locked around her. Arya burrowed her face into Sansa's shoulder. She didn't cry. She drew one long, shuddering breath, and then was still. Sansa rubbed her cheek against her sister's ragged hair.

"It answers a lot of questions," she whispered. "Thank you."


	19. Chapter 19: Family, duty, honor

_Sandor_

There were two empty chairs at the table. The old lord sat at one end, and his eyes kept wandering to the empty chair at the other end. As for Sandor's own eyes, he couldn't seem to help that they landed on Sansa every time he looked up from his plate. He followed her fork from her plate to her lips, disappearing between them...

Arya's pointy little finger jabbed between his ribs, and he looked over at her furiously. Podrick had brought him an ill-fitting surcoat, informing him that his armor would be considered inappropriate at the lord's table, and he wouldn't need it. Wrong. Arya's brows were up, her eyes glancing meaningfully toward the old lord.

Sandor cleared his throat. "Yer pardon, Lord Selwyn, what was that?"

"I asked how you find the wine, ser."

"Fine. Fine vintage, Lord Selwyn," he answered uncomfortably. He was used to being treated like a servant, not sitting at table making polite conversation.

Sansa asked a question about the history of the place, and Selwyn launched into the story while Sandor breathed a secret sigh of relief.

Hairs rose on the back of Sandor's neck and he tensed, turning in his seat as a large man in light armor strode toward the table. He was old, perhaps around the same age as Selwyn, but seemed fit and strong. The light scars on this face, the set of his jaw, the way he carried himself all spoke of a warrior, as did the way his assessing eyes shot straight to Sandor.

Sandor got to his feet, along with the old lord and the boy, as the newcomer reached the table, passing behind Sansa's chair and making Sandor's sword hand twitch. The warrior stopped to make a curt bow to the lord, but the old man reached out and clasped arms with him instead.

"Dayron, glad you could join us."

"Thank you, my lord. When I heard you had guests, I made my way back as quickly as I could, especially as I was not able to learn their names."

Selwyn smiled. "All is well. I would assure my guests that while you reside on the Isle of Tarth, you are as much under the protection of Ser Worth as you are my own. Lady Sansa of House Stark, may I present Ser Dayron Worth."

Worth looked surprised, but recovered himself quickly. He took Sansa's hand and bowed over it, but did not kiss it. Sandor felt his tension ease somewhat. "My condolences on the many losses suffered by House Stark in this dark time, my lady."

"Thank you, Ser Dayron, you are very kind."

"Her sister, Lady Arya."

The old knight made Arya a bow. The brat squirmed nervously in her seat, and nodded back at him.

"This is their sworn shield, Sandor Clegane."

The knight's brow rose a bit. Thoughts swirled in his gray gaze, but Sandor couldn't make them out. Worth said nothing, merely nodded curtly.

"And this is Podrick Payne, Brienne's squire."

"Brienne? Is there news, then?"

"No more than we had, Dayron. Sit, eat with us, and we'll exchange news."

They took their seats again, and Worth took the empty chair beside Sandor, a position which would allow him to study the burns. Sandor stiffened. His place had always been to stand and watch. But he wasn't at court, and there was no one to watch.

Selwyn briefly related how the Starks had come to him, and what little they'd had to tell him about his daughter. A serving maid put a plate of food in front of him, but he didn't touch it as his lord spoke. "And what of you? How go your preparations?"

"Well, my lord. They shall be ready to leave come morn. One last time, I would beg your leave to lead them."

"I have not told you," he said to the rest of them, "that we had a raven from the maester at Moat Cailin, informing us that Lord Bolton holds Brienne in his dungeons, that he fears for her safety, and that a ransom for her release is unlikely to be accepted. Ser Dayron has organized part of the house guard, as well as some men from the surrounding holdfasts, men who have volunteered out of love for Brienne. They leave for Moat Cailin on the morrow." Selwyn shook his head. "I'm sorry, Dayron. You know it pains me to deny my daughter your sword, but I have vowed the protection of Evenfall to Lady Sansa and Lady Arya. More than ever I need you here to help me keep my promises."

"Of course, my lord."

"I wish I could express our gratitude," Sansa said, with a guilty, sorrowful sweetness that affected every man at the table, and had the old lord reaching out to give her a fatherly pat on her hand.

"My lord, Ser Worth," Podrick said, pushing back his chair, "I would accompany your men to Moat Cailin."

"I'll tell you what I've told the others, boy," Worth said firmly, "with apologies to my lord. It's a mission with little hope of success, and you're more likely to die in the swamp than see the shores of Tarth again."

"It's true," Selwyn said, his face hopeless but set. "You're a fine young man, with a long life ahead of you, and your loyalty does you credit. But best you stay and look after her charges."

"But we have to try, don't we? Your pardon, Lord Selwyn, but I feel it is my duty to go to my lady and render her a-any aid that might be within my small power."

Sansa turned to him, turning her face up to him with a pleading concern bound to sway the boy from his stupidity. "Podrick, please."

"If you have any regard for me at all, my lady, I ask you to release me."

"I'd go," Arya's flat, strident tone cut across the tension, "if I could."

"Aye, we know you would, brat," Sandor snapped at her. He could just see her sneaking off to join such a thing. Bloody stupid Stark nobility and all. "And we'll have a guard at your door tomorrow when the party leaves." He felt the start from both of the Tarth men at the way he'd spoken to the girl.

"My lady," Podrick said, drawing her attention back to him.

"I want to say the words to keep you safe with us, but you must follow the dictates of your conscience."

Podrick fell to one knee beside her chair, and Sandor groaned inwardly. He thought he'd left the chirping and courtly theatrics behind at the Red Keep.

Selwyn and Worth granted the boy's request, and he resumed his seat and his meal. Stupid boy. Sandor tried to think if he had ever been so earnest. Not bloody likely. The traits which earned Podrick so many of Sansa's affectionate smiles had all been burned out of him so long again he didn't remember them.

He could see Sansa was upset. She would have been drawing out the old lord, keeping his mind from his troubles with polite questions and gracious compliments on his home and hall. But her social graces had gone with her appetite.

_Stupid boy._

**xxxxxx**

_Arya_

Arya made her way up the spiraling steps of the watchtower. Podrick had pointed her in this direction on his way to make preparations for his journey. The possibility of going off after Brienne to get himself killed seemed to have improved his mood slightly.

The door at the top of the stairs opened outward, and it was hard to push against the wind coming in off the sea. Outside it was chilly and damp, and the moon was already in the sky. The Hound leaned against the battlements, looking out on the black water beyond the forest.

"I might've known you'd come to plague me, sooner or later. Say your piece, brat, and have done." He moved over so she could stand where the wall was shorter and see look out across the trees.

"Really? I catch you havin' a go at my sister and you thought it might come up in conversation?"

"I wasn't- It wasn't- What d'you want?"

"I don't know. Guess maybe I want to know what your bloody intentions are."

He let out his raspy laugh, the one for things that weren't actually funny. "I don't have any intentions."

"Really."

"Yes, really."

Arya was silent for a while, mulling on the intricacies of sisterly confidences. "She cares about you."

The Hound sighed, a ragged sound. "She's grateful to me. And I took advantage. I'm a bad, bad man. End of story."

"I'm grateful to you, too, but I never tried to climb you like a tree and-"

"Thank all the bloody gods for that!" he cried, stumbling a step away from her, looking horrified.

She gave her her best calm, level look. "I was only saying." Then she laughed. "You should have seen your face, though."

"Can't you find someone else to bother?"

"I could, but I'm used to you. No sense breaking in someone new."

He grunted and went silent, no doubt determined to try to ignore her until she lost interest. When had that ever worked?

"I think you're in love with her."

"Well then, aye, it must be true. What with your vast experience of the world and all."

"I think you've been in love with her for a long time."

He sighed again. "So?"

Arya opened her mouth and shut it again.

"Oh, is that all it took to shut you up? Aye then, I love Sansa Stark, Princess of the North, heiress-_heiress_-to Winterfell, and oh, did I forget to mention, _wife_ of Tyrion Lannister and Lady of Casterly Rock?"

Arya frowned. It was strange to think of her sister as all those things. She was only Sansa. And, her sister. And annoyingly perfect. She looked over at the Hound again. He wasn't angry with her yet, so she decided to keep talking.

"If she's still married to the Imp, how was she to marry Ramsey?"

"How do I know? Maybe Littlefucker got the thing overturned somehow. Maybe something to do with Tyrion's conviction in the trial by combat. I don't fucking know. Do I look like a fuckin' maester to you?"

"So then she's probably not married to the Imp and Lady of Casterly Rock."

"Perhaps not."

"Well then?"

"Brat, who was my grandfather?"

"The first of House Clegane, kennel master of Lord Tytos Lannister, who rewarded your grandfather when he and his dogs saved Tytos from a lioness on a hunting trip," she recited.

"And who was your grandfather?"

"Rikard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North."

"Lord Paramount of the North. They don't use that title much these days, but it has a ring to it."

"So?"

"So? Bolton's taken Winterfell, and the Lannisters have named him Warden of the North. But the northmen don't give a flying fuck what Tywin wanted to call anyone, and most of them aren't going to just up and follow the man that betrayed their king to his death, now are they? The Lannisters want the North's allegiance, but the only way they're going to get it through Bolton is to kill every northmen they want to rule. So what can they do?"

"Piss off?"

"Not bloody likely. They find a way to nullify the marriage of your sister and the Imp, and marry her to Bolton's heir. Sansa's son will be the next rightful Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."

"That's a long time to wait. What if there's no North left by then?"

"They hope the promise of it would be enough to keep the people in line, I suppose. Get their princess to swear fealty to the new boy king, and they'll all have to bend the knee as well."

"Sansa would never agree to it."

"Highborn girls are never asked for their opinions."

"But that's if they take her. But we won't let them."

"Aye, brat, we won't let them."

"So then you marry Sansa, and then she can't marry a Bolton."

The Hound dropped his head and scrubbed his face with his hands. "Even dropping your ridiculous notion that she'd have me, let's look at the politics. You want to go home, don't you? Take Winterfell back from the Boltons? Punish the Lannisters? Put an end to the threats to the North? That's your fucking Stark duty, isn't it?"

Arya frowned. She wanted to sail to Braavos and become a Faceless man, but she nodded anyway.

"Sansa knows her duty. She knows the blood in her veins is the only thing to stop the fighting. She'll marry a powerful lord who will offer her an army to take back Winterfell and the North."

"Who?"

"I don't know bloody who!"

Arya stared out at the water, feeling the hate pour off the Hound and waiting for him to calm himself.

"Fuck Winterfell," she said.

"Y'don't mean that."

"I do. We can find a ship, sail for Braavos. You'll be sellsword, and I'll become a Faceless Man."

"Abandon her? Have you lost your mind?"

"I meant the three of us, you great idiot. She doesn't have to be Princess of the North. Let them all figure it out on their own, and leave us well out of it."

"Winter is coming."

The words punched Arya in the center of her chest. She'd almost heard her father's voice when he'd said it. While Joffrey and Tommen played in the sun and learned how to kill things for sport in the safety of their Kingswood, her brothers had been learning how to defend the realm from the wildlings who would swarm the wall and the realm when the long Winter drove them southward. It was the duty of her family to hold the North, and it bristled inside her, alive and yearning, however much she hated it in that moment.

_"Family, duty, honor."_ The Tully words. She hated them.

"Why should the Starks be the only ones to care about honor and duty? Much good it's done us. Why should we care to retake the North and then defend the lot of them come Winter?"

"It's not whether you should care, brat. It's that you do."

"Fuck you."

"Aye."

Their family was gone, so why shouldn't their duty be gone with it? She wanted a new family. Sansa, and the Hound, and- _"You wouldn't be my family. You'd be milady."_

The Hound was trying to explain to her what Gendry had already known. They weren't people, they were titles, and walking, talking sacks of noble blood, waiting to be passed on. She supposed she'd be expected to marry some pompous idiot, to bring the North another army? Fuck that. She wanted revenge against the Lannisters, but she wanted to feel the kill herself.

But that was her way. It wasn't Sansa's. The Hound was probably right. Sansa couldn't marry him when another choice could save so many lives. And now that he was calling himself their sworn shield, he would have to stand by and watch.

"I suppose you think I'm a stupid child."

"All children are stupid," he told her. "Most don't grow out of it. You might."

"Podrick's going to get himself killed."

"Aye."

"Can't you stop him?"

"I can break his legs. Is that what you had in mind? That's about all I'm good for."

"Forget it." She didn't want Podrick to go. She didn't _dis_like him. But she didn't care, really. _It won't matter if he doesn't come back_, she told herself. _He'll be just another one who didn't._ "I'm going in."

The Hound just grunted at her. No snide remarks about leaving him in peace. She would find Lord Selwyn on her way back to her room and warn him to lock up the wine.


	20. Chapter 20: A song of broken glass

_Sansa &amp; Sandor_

It had been over an hour since Arya had come back to the room they shared. She'd splashed water on her face, ignored the hairbrush, changed into a borrowed night shift, and climbed into bed. She'd turned on her side, recited that list of hers that had become like a prayer, and fallen asleep immediately.

Sansa lay awake. She'd been thinking of Podrick, then worried over Arya, her list, and her vengeance. That had turned her thoughts to Arya's story, and to Sandor, who was never long from her thoughts anyway. It was strange to think that the old Sansa might have been jealous. Not of their relationship as such, but just of the fact that she wasn't the only one he'd looked after. The old Sansa might have felt that made her less special somehow and resented it. Now she knew that life was too precious for her to have any room for that kind of pettiness in it. And Arya, too, was more precious to her now than her old self could have fathomed.

The other part that seemed strange to hear about was how he had looked after Ayra, in much the same way he'd looked after Sansa at the Red Keep. Strange because, when she thought about it, it wasn't a surprise. It wasn't a revelation, it was a confirmation of a conclusion she'd already reached, a knowledge built slowly over time, that the man beneath armor was a caretaker at heart.

Her mind turned to all of his glances over dinner, both the straightforward and the stolen. He was still watching her, and she was still liking it. The tension between them was as disconcerting as it was delicious, and she fervently hoped that no one else noticed it. They hadn't been alone since Arya and Podrick walked in on them in the ship's hold. Arya might have left them, but Podrick made sure he was always nearby. Sansa suspected that Sandor was avoiding her as well. So things were left unfinished between them, uncertain.

The ladies at court spoke of leaving a man dangling, of increasing his interest and passion through such uncertainty, but Sansa was unconvinced. Perhaps another sort of man. But from what she'd come to understand about Sandor in the last weeks, she feared that uncertainty would fester into mistrust somehow, that his mind would turn it to something that would come between them. And the more she thought of that, the more restless she became. There were those times, moments that made her heart stutter to think of them, when she thought that she had breached those walls he'd built and touched something real. She wasn't willing to lose that ground.

She rose from the bed, drawing a shawl around her shoulders. She lit a candlestick from a taper in the low-burning fire, and slipped from the room.

Sandor knew the sound of her step in the hall. He was out of his bed in a moment, but she was faster, slipping through his unlocked door and closing it behind her. For a moment he couldn't speak, only stare at how small and fine she looked, standing there against the door in her bare feet, at the way the flicker of the candle turned her hair to flame.

"All is well," she told him, hoping to ease the tension on his face.

"Why are you here?" he rasped.

"I...We've hardly had a chance to speak these last two days."

"You came for a chat, little bird?" he sneered, moving toward her. The candlelight flickered over his wide chest, danced across the map of his battle scars. "Should I call for tea?" His expression darkened as he loomed over her. "What are you about?"

There had to be a reason she was there. He searched her face, trying to read her intent, but saw only wariness. He'd put that there. He'd already accused her of using her body to try to secure his protection. He regretted insulting her that way, knowing that he'd hurt her. He regretted every time that he'd insulted her, every time he'd purposely frightened her, and he regretted his future transgressions, knowing he would do it again. He didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want to be like this. He just didn't know how to be.

He turned and walked away from her, putting needed space between them, feeling too edgy and way too sober. He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his palms on his the legs of his breeches, trying to clear his head of the fog that came with being close to her. "What is it, then? Podrick? You're the one who released him. If you can't find the pretty words to talk sense into him, don't think I can."

Her feet whispered on the stone as she crossed to him, setting the candlestick on the bedside table. "I didn't come here to talk about Podrick."

"What then?"

She took a small step forward, edging between his knees. He straightened, almost shrinking back away from her. She felt the shivering tension between them, as though they were a sculpture formed of glass, veined with a million tiny cracks that made them both so very fragile. The slightest misstep, the smallest careless act and they would shatter into pieces, jagged shards that would never again fit together quite the way they should.

He wore some of his cracks on the outside, the scars on his body, the burns on his face. She raised her hand slowly, not breathing, waiting for that moment when he would grab her wrist in his bruising grip and demand to know what she was doing. But it didn't come, and her hand settled against his scarred temple. She couldn't read his expression, the intensity of the dark eyes that stared up at her. He didn't move away, and he made no move to touch her in return. He was perfectly still beneath her hand, but his slow, steady breaths had the quality of someone trying to force himself to calm.

She drew one finger down a line of scar tissue, feeling the way his skin was pulled and stretched, over the place where his brow was drawn down over his eyes. This was where it started, wasn't it? These cracks that formed his perpetual scowl, these old, old cracks that grew inward to meet the ones that grew inside. She knew those, because they were like hers. The ones that were born of fear and cruelty, and grew from loneliness and hate. She wouldn't tell him. How could she begin to compare her months in the Red Keep with the years he had suffered? But she did know, and the knowing drew her to him, inexplicably, inexorably.

He watched her face intently, searching for that first familiar flicker of pity or disgust that would break this spell and allow him to shove her away. He could barely feel the light touch of her fingertip as it traced over the ruin of his face. What he felt was that snarling rage he kept chained inside his chest, prowling, waiting, held in check only by the crushing weight of tension.

She curled her hand, turning it, drawing the backs of her fingers across his cheek, and when her expression shifted, it was to something that looked like tenderness. He set his teeth as that creature inside him growled a warning, fisted his hands in the sheets in a effort to keep himself still. Her eyes shifted to his, the blue almost lost to the dark. Red hair streaming down, her other hand coming up to touch him, her lips parting, her eyes drifting closed. Then her mouth was on his, a gentle brush, a whisper of sensation. He opened his eyes to find hers again, measuring and cautious. She was the bird, small and bright, and the only way to keep her from taking flight was to hold himself utterly still.

She kissed him again, her mouth gliding against his, teasing him with the taste of her. He tilted his head back, wanting more, coaxing more from her with nothing but his mouth and his will. Her fingers slid into his hair as her tongue slid into his mouth, and he dug his fingers into the mattress thinking he would tear it apart if he didn't touch her soon. And if he did touch her?

"Sansa." Her name was almost a moan, a deep, undulating sound that fell from his lips and spilled down her body. "You have to go."

"I don't," she whispered, taking that last step to bring her body flush against his. She could almost hear the build of tension, the weight of it that pressed in all around them. The heat of him seared her skin through the thin fabric of her shift, burned her even as she wanted more of it.

His hands left the bed, but he hesitated to touch her. She held her breath until they settled, light and unsure, against her waist. His eyes were on hers, wide and searching. Warmth swept through her, a heavy wave of tenderness that made her ache for this fierce and broken man.

She drew him in, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and he was surrounded by her. The scent of her, the fine skin of her throat, smooth against his brow, the silken fall of hair across his cheek. He crossed his arms behind her back, pulling her tight against him, her shawl sliding to the floor as he surrendered his breath in a long, shuddering sigh.

Her heart wrenched, a bright, sweet pain that she had to set her teeth against. This is what she could have given him. On the night of the Blackwater, when he'd stood over her, looking down at her with eyes that asked for something she hadn't understood. _"I won't hurt you. I'll keep you safe,"_ but under those words he had been pleading for her to trust him. This is what she could have given him that night, if only she'd stepped in and given her acceptance, the way he gave to her now. Aching with tenderness and regret, she curled her hands into his hair and raised his face once more. Her eyes fell closed as her lips whispered over his skin, learning the feel, and the taste, and the scent of him.

He held himself still under her gentle assault, cradled in her hands, her mouth warm against his skin as her kisses roamed over his face, her small body rigid in his arms. No one had ever touched him this way, this slow, soft exploration. The intimacy was unbearable.

He turned his head and caught her lips with his, raising a hand to the back of her neck, taking control. He needed. So much, everything, he just _needed._ First her mouth, rising to his feet, sliding up her body to tower over her, triumphant as her head fell back on his hand, as she opened to him, as he swept into her. Then her throat, that fine, delicious skin beneath his open mouth, the beat of her pulse beneath it, hammering and his. His fingers found the tie that lay against her collarbone and worked it open, tugged it loose.

She was molten, a river of liquid fire running through her, the current following the path drawn by his lips against her skin, bright sparks and spouts of flame. Her shift fell away from her shoulder, and he fell to feasting on it, sending another wave of heat coursing through her. In the back of her mind, a question, an accusation, being drowned and slowly consumed, whispering words like shame and dishonor across a mind laid waste by passion.

"Sansa..." he whispered against her, coming back to take her mouth again. She raised her hands to his face once more, feeling the scars and the prickle of beard beneath her fingertips. Arya's words drifted past, unbidden, unexpected, _"...he had been fighting for me for a long time."_ But when had anyone fought for him, this man who took because he was afraid to ask? How could there be shame in loving the man who risked everything to keep them safe, and demanded nothing in return? How could there be honor in saving herself for love by contract, and dishonor in giving to a man who wanted her only for herself?

Her hands slid from his face and pushed lightly against his chest. He wanted to roar in denial. He shut his eyes, every ounce of his will summoned to open his arms and let her step away. She wasn't his, couldn't be his. Whatever this was, she knew that, even when he made himself forget. He had to let her go. He had to watch her walk away.

He opened his eyes. She was still there, close enough to touch, close enough to snare. His hands fisted with the effort not to yank her back against him. Holding his eyes, she raised her hand to right her shift where it lay fallen from her shoulder. Her shoulder rolled. His heart stopped as she pushed the fabric down, jerked in his chest as she drew out her arm, exposing her breast. Moving faster, she shed the other side. The fabric slid past her waist, catching at her hips. A tug, a shake of her hips, and he was staring at the garment, pooled on the floor around her feet.

She took a small step forward on shaky legs, out of the pile of linen, the cool of the room swirling over her naked skin. Her body trembled, wracked by the vicious pounding of her heart as she raised her eyes beneath lowered lashes. His face was hard and drawn, dark eyes glittering as they raked her. She saw the Hound in them, crouched and warning, poised to spring. She should have been the wolf, sure and smooth and cunning, but she felt the fawn, vulnerable and new, taking her first steps on unsteady legs.

She wanted his skin against hers, the heat of him, to lean into his hardness, to be held up by the strength of his arms. She was lost, and she wanted him lead her. But he only stared at her with his predator's gaze and would not touch her. She raised a hand to his chest, felt him flinch as she laid her palm to his skin so she could feel that the pounding of his heart was just the same as hers. With her other hand she captured one of his, her fingers easing his fist open, and placing it against her hip. _"I've posed us to dance,"_ she thought, feeling foolish and inept.

But as if in a dance they whirled, spinning, dipping to the bed behind them. And then she was beneath him, arching to the rough caresses of his hands, the heat of his mouth, the scrape of his beard and his scars. This was what she had longed for, all unknowing, to be the victim of this madness, to give herself up anything he wished to take. She writhed under the onslaught of sensation. His mouth worked first one breast, then the other, drawing forth an ache in her that was nearly unbearable. Making her clamp her thighs against it, and her lips against the whimper of sound that would escape them.

He ran his hand down the center of her body, a long, hard stroke. He closed his eyes, feeling every silken plane of her, every shuddering breath she took. He met resistance at the top of her auburn curls. "Open for me," he whispered into her ear, nudging her thighs apart with his hand. She hesitated, but gave under the insistent push of his fingers, sliding down to find her drenched and ready for him. His vision grayed for a moment, his hardness, his need for her a physical pain now. His blood coursing through his veins, beating a chant of _take her_ in his mind.

He moved to strip his breeches, back in a moment to where she lay, stretched, still, and waiting. Pale and perfect, long, supple limbs, ripe breasts, a halo of red silk on his pillow, and the subtler rose flush of her skin. Her eyes, wide and blue, and fixed on him, and as he lowered to cage her with his arms, a flicker of uncertainty flit across her face. He sat back, kneeling beside her, his body screaming for him to take her.

"Last chance. Fly, little bird, and I'll try not to chase you."

Fear had slid into her. Not of him, but of them. Of men and their nature. Cersei's words, _"When a man's blood is up, anything with tits looks good. A precious thing like you will look very, very good. A slice of cake, just waiting to be eaten."_ Sandor looked at her like that now, as though she were a slice of cake. She thought about the rioters. _When a man's blood is up_, how they'd grabbed at her, how their hands had hurt, _"You ever been fucked, little girl?"_ how they'd dragged her-

"Sansa, for the sake of all the gods, take yourself away from here."

He would let her go. No matter that his blood was up, no matter that she'd gone this far, he would still let her walk away from this. She rose. She saw in his face that he thought she would go, saw resignation and pain settle into the lines of his face. It hurt to see how they belonged there, how familiar they were. It hurt her to let them have any part of him.

She came to her knees before him. Saw the doubt and confusion behind his eyes. It wasn't enough to let him take her, it wasn't enough to lie back in surrender to his desires. His doubts would always come back to haunt him, to come between them. The answer bloomed in her breast, and she smiled at the warmth of it. She had to give to him. He needed, he denied, and all she had to do was give.

She leaned up to him, pulling his head down until her lips brushed his ear. "I don't want to leave you," she whispered. She kissed him, again, moving in to feel the hardness of his chest against her breasts, pressing kisses down the side of his neck as he'd done to her.

His hands moved over her, urging her closer, groaning as his head fell to the side, baring his throat to her. He struggled to keep his movements slow, to touch her gently, but she urged him on with her mouth and her hands, with the glide of her body against his, with her moans and incoherent whispers. Fucking he could handle, but not this, not this aching need for her that was driving him to the edge of sanity. Not this starving thing that clawed inside him, begging for her, to be closer, to be inside her.

They fell back on the bed, but she was with him this time, her hands in his hair, her body arching and undulating against his. There was only madness and the moment, only her and his need. His mouth devouring hers, his cock poised at her entrance, her hips opening to him, and then he was pushing into her, so tight, wet heat, his eyes rolling back behind his closed lids, so good. Needing more, small retreat, then shoving forward to sheath himself inside her.

Her cry flew into his mouth, stabbing into his heart, and he was frozen by it. By the time he'd felt the barrier, it had been too late. He'd never felt that tearing, but he knew what it was.

"Fuck!"

His withdrawal felt like another tear inside her as he ripped himself from her, leaving Sansa dizzy and gasping. The sheet was flung over her and she grasped it in her fingers, holding it to her breasts as she sought to calm herself. It took only a moment for the gray to recede from her vision, but there was a burning edge to the soreness between her legs. She rolled to her side to draw up her knees beneath the sheet, hoping that would ease it.

"Say something, curse you!" he snapped.

She opened her eyes. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her, just close enough to touch and too far away to think about it. She'd made a mistake, she realized. More than anything, she needed to gain his trust, and she should have told him the truth before. What would he wish to hear from her now?

He sighed, a ragged, loathful sound. "Are you...badly hurt?"

"No." Even now it was more the memory of pain, the shock of it that was still coursing through her. She sat up, drawing the sheet with her. "It was supposed to hurt. I knew that."

"Well I bloody well didn't!"

"I know," she told him softly, letting the sheet fall and moving carefully behind his hunched shoulders. "I should have told you. Forgive me."

He shrugged off the hand that settled on his arm, felt her yank it back as though he'd burned her. He could feel her, hovering behind his naked back, so close to touching him.

"You never would have touched me if you had known."

"You're bloody damned right I wouldn't. That wasn't mine to take."

"That's as much as saying it wasn't mine to give. My most precious possession, and I just threw it away on the likes of you, that's what you're thinking. Fuck that."

He snapped his face to hers, shocked to his bones. "What did you say?"

"You heard what I said. I was never supposed to have a choice. Father chose Joffrey, Robb would have chosen someone else. Tywin chose Tyrion. Tyrion was the first person who ever gave me a say."

"Idiot dwarf."

"For not forcing me to his bed?"

"For...I don't know."

"He called me a child."

"For that, then. You haven't been a child for a long time."

She smiled softly, though he was looking away "I'm grateful to Tyrion for giving me a choice. At least you're valued for your ability. I'm a broodmare. I'm tired of being treated like a prize and a commodity."

"Well, you've got back at them all now, haven't you?"

She drew her knees up against her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs. "Gods, how you can hurt me," she whispered. He turned to her, his expression stricken and confused. She knew he didn't understand, and that only made it hurt more. This time, when she reached out to touch his face, he didn't flinch away.

She crawled into his lap. Allowing him no time to deny her, she curled against his chest. His arms slid around her, rough hands dragging across her skin. It was no right thing for a maiden or a lady to do, but she was finished with all of that. "Don't treat me like a spoiled child. Don't treat me like I don't know my own mind. Have I not seen your worst moments? Have you not made me more than aware of your faults?"

"I thought I had."

She ignored the sarcasm. "I told you that I see you now. Not the dog you call yourself, not the brute you'd have me see, not your sword arm or your protection. I see the man you are." She raised herself, bringing her lips to his ear. "I _choose_ you. Please don't mock me for it."

His arms clamped hard around her. "I don't understand."

"I know," she answered sadly. But someday, perhaps.

She drew his mouth to hers for a kiss, and he gave it to her. His heart ached. Everything in him ached, with regret for every way he had hurt her, with longing for her to soothe him. He was drowning in her, in her kiss, the feel of her skin, in what she was. He was drowning, and the only way to survive her was to fall.

They were back on the bed. Somehow, lost in her, he found himself once again in the cradle of her hips. Fear he'd never known whipped through him. "I can't hurt you again."

Her throat was so tight. Mothers and septas spoke of duty, pain, and getting children. Young married ladies in the gardens spoke of their ability to inflame the passions of their husbands and suffer their sweaty, exuberant endurance. None of them spoke of this longing she felt to wrap herself around this man, to take him into her. To hold him close to her for as long as she could, no matter what it cost her.

She understood him, his violence, his wildness, the way that hurting her would damage him. She would keep him grounded. Keep him safe. "Trust me," she whispered. "Please don't deny me this."

"I can't deny you," he breathed in her ear. He trembled with tension as he eased into her. So hot and tight, so wet for him. He stopped, letting her adjust, letting them both breathe. "Easy, little bird. Try to relax."

She tried, letting out her breath and allowing her head to fall to the side for the nuzzle of his lips behind her ear. The burn she'd felt at his entrance subsided, and she relaxed into the play of his mouth on her skin. The feel of him inside her became more odd than uncomfortable, causing her to bump her hips restlessly. His hand fisted beside her as he slid deeper.

"Sansa, Gods," he groaned. Her eyes went wide as he slid from her. The easing of that fullness, the slow drag against her inner flesh, the burn that was somehow painful and delicious. Then he slid back, the sensation of being filled by him pushing the breath from her lips in a startled gasp of pleasure. Again, longer this time, deeper.

"Sandor..." His name sighed from her lips, and he thought she would break him. He would be crushed under the aching tenderness he felt for her. Her sweetness would tear him to pieces, and he would never be able to put himself back together. He needed to thrust, to pound into her and find his release. She was so delicate in his arms, so sensitive and responsive, so fucking new. What business did he have touching anything like her? What did he know except rutting with whores, his dirty business, both wanting the matter over quickly, and to be out of each others' sight?

"Whatever you're thinking," she said breathlessly, "leave it. I-I would have all of you here with me."

She'd said it so shyly, as though she didn't know she owned him. Aye, she could have all of him. Everything he was, and everything he ever could be, was for her.

Something shifted inside her. Languid pleasure turned to coiling tension. Her limbs wanted to move without her consent, everything in her wanting to draw him closer, deeper and faster. Her legs bent at the knees, her feet dragging against the sheets, down his legs, finally wrapping her legs around him. Even her nails began to scrape against his skin. His voice caressed her, deep and soft in her ear, "Sansa," and "my little bird."

Something in her was drawing tight, so tight and- she couldn't catch her breath, nor a thought, and she pushed at his shoulders in panic.

"I've got you," he crooned. One arm was locked tight around her, but with the other hand he reached down to touch her where their bodies were joined. "I've got you. Trust me and let it go."

She didn't know what the words meant, but her body bowed as spasms took her. He covered her cry with his mouth as throbbing beats of unbearable pleasure burst from the place where he touched her. Rippling with each of his thrusts that grew stronger and faster. His hand left her to fist in the sheets. She curled around him, holding tightly with everything she had as her inner muscles continued to pulse and shudder, as his breath came harsh in her ear, as his whole body became hard as steel in her embrace. She speared her fingers into his hair and he scooped up her hips from the bed and drove, deep and still, roaring something into the pillow that almost sounded like "No."

He slid from her, rolling away with the groan of something wounded, leaving her suddenly alone and open, unprotected and cold. Before she knew what to think, his arm snaked around her waist and yanked her against him, back to front. He was curled against her, his arms tight around her. Rough, and warm, and hard everywhere he touched her, his breaths labored and harsh in her ear.

She felt soft and loose, like she could float away if he didn't hold her so tightly. She felt cocooned in his warmth, protected and safe. She couldn't remember that she had ever felt this safe, this content, or this...right. His arms tightened more when she burrowed back against him, bringing a smile to her lips as sleep dragged at her.

She felt a tickle against her skin, a wetness at her temple, sliding down into her hair. She forced herself to stillness, knowing mustn't acknowledge his tears.


End file.
